Oh, for ****'s sake!

Confessions of a Strip Mall Santa

2010-12-21T00:03:00.001-08:00

“Just getting ready for another fun-filled day with the little tykes!”

I know what you’re thinking. Oh, don’t worry, I know. You’re thinking uh-oh here he goes on his annual Shitmas tirade. Well folks, you are in for a treat. Now maybe last year I didn’t do the best job of showing how much I love the holidays in this less than ‘Yay People!’ post. True, I was letting the stress of the season get to me, and I maybe wasn’t thinking clearly about all of the great things that go along with this festive time of year. What a difference a year makes! Well, several months actually since not too long ago I was eating pizza pops on a shitty futon in my underwear plotting what turned out to be a Joaquin Phoenix-style ill advised foray into attempted rap superstardom. Out of the blue I met someone great that handily met all of my qualifications for a life partner/financial supporter/identity theft crime accomplice: She wanted me to put my clothes back on because I grossed her out in my underwear (I gross me out in my underwear too!), she sits on the shitty futon and lets me have the comfy chair if I get to it first, and she loves pizza pops as long as I buy them and microwave them and promise that one day she’ll never see another fucking pizza pop as long as she lives.

I know, seriously right?! You can’t make this kind of love story up, it’s just too perfect. You know, unless you were responsible for doing a re-draft on a script for a crappy Jennifer Aniston-Jack Black romantic (?) comedy (?). The story better be pretty good to convince the public about that pairing. In real life she wouldn’t even bang him with your punanny. So anyhow, I was all aglow this holiday season with positivity about my future prospects with this girl, mostly about the identity theft stuff ‘cause she’s really awesome with computers and shit. I was thinking maybe I should spread some of my manic-phase happy-jones around and try and get a job as a mall Santa to bring in a little extra cash when I saw an ad in the local paper seeking applicants for Santa-wannabes like me to take shifts at our very own local den of capitalist pit vipers. I went down and talked to the mall manager about the position, but he informed me I smelled too much like gin to be a high class center concourse mall Santa, and suggested I try the outlet strip mall out by the overpass, as he had heard they were hiring. Needless to say I aced the interview, due in no small part to the fact that the strip mall manager smelled more like gin than me. Looks like I had picked a great day to not smell like vodka! So there I was, sitting in my folding outdoors chair next to a lovely plastic tree with popping and farting seventies-era lights strung on it and an aroma that could only reasonably be described as “burning” just inside the entrance of the Electronics Emporium Shack of Craaaaazzy Deals ©. I found myself listening to one hard luck story after another from the the underprivileged kids perched on my lap. All at once, I experienced a Will Ferrell style Thought Bubble! Someone needs to tell these poor kids’ hard luck stories so that we can all learn to appreciate the things most of us take for granted at Christmas! Unfortunately before I could expand the thought bubble a bit, it burst as some kid pissed his pants on my lap and I had to take the rest of the day off to drink away the stress of it all.

One little tyke in particular told a sad tale that really tugged at my heartstrings, and I asked his permission to record his sad story so that others might feel empathy this holiday season for those less fortunate than themselves. Oddly, he refused to have his story captured, but fuck him, I was wearing my mp3 player under my coat next to my flask and I just hit the ‘record’ button as he spoke. The world needs to know this story! I selected excerpts from the transcripts of our conversation to help illustrate to my reader(s) just what I was talking about. I also snapped a quick pic of him with my cellphone as he left. When he got annoyed about it and asked me if I was taking his picture I just told him I was checking a text from a hooker, which he seemed to accept as a reasonable enough excuse for me to point my camera at him. No disrespect intended, but christ underprivileged tykes are fucking stupid. Snippets of our sad conversation are excerpted here along with a picture of the frowny little fella:

Have you ever seen such a sad face on a ~~psychopathic woman beater~~ underprivileged Christmas tyke?

An excerpt from our little talk:

Me: Hi little feller! Actually you’re not so little at all are you there uhh…youngster? What’s your name son?

Sad Little Tyke: I have a hormone problem. And I smoke too much. My name is umm…Smell….Smell Fibson.

Me: Smell! Quite an interesting name you’ve got there! Why don’t you sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want for Christmas.

Sad Little Tyke: Well Santa, it’s been a pretty tough year for me. I lost my whole career and got myself involved in a messy situation with a woman, and I got a bit drunk a few times and well, I kind of fucked everything up.

Me: Uhh…how so Smell? It’s okay, you can tell Santa.

Sad Little Tyke: You know, the usual shit, get drunk, crazy jealous, and threaten your midlife crisis baby mama with a beating from a baseball bat and burning her house down with her in it.

Me: Ooookay…that is a pretty bad year alright, and I think you would agree that you’ve been a little bit….naughty. Santa believes even naughty kids deserve a gift though, so what would you like for Christmas Smell?

Sad Little Tyke: I want a guaranteed Hollywood blockbuster headlining career; I want a call back from Ron Howard; I want TMZ to fuck off and I want a magic device that makes any phone I talk into only say good things out the other end. I heard someone talking about it, it’s called a Discretion or a Therapy or a Lobotomy or something. Some Chinese sounding name like that anyway.

Me: Well, that’s a pretty tall order Smell, but Santa will see what he can do.

Sad Little Tyke (whispering): You better make it happen Santa or you’re gonna be eating some good old Louisville Slugger maple while your fucking igloo melts down around your ears. Mark my words douchebag.

Me (hastily): Thanks for coming son, see you next year!

Folks I think you can obviously see that there are people out there in the world that went through a heck of a lot tougher year than you and I did, and I hope you think of them when you are enjoying the warmth and comfort of family and friends this Christmas season. Me? I need a drink. I think what bothers me the most is that someone didn’t see this coming and do something to stop it or help. If only someone, anyone, even a stupid dickhead blogger had seen this coming. Sad, so very sad.

Barack Obama’s ‘Merica

2010-12-19T23:43:00.001-08:00

Winter. The season of discontent, malaise, and flagging administrations performing stupid human tricks to capture the bored and housebound minds of a fickle voting public in the run-up to springtime electioneering. Now I don’t want to beat a dead horse but…well what the fuck, it’s dead anyway. The Obama Miracle is slowly but surely morphing oh-so-painfully into the Obama Debacle. One could maybe compare it to Joan Rivers’ morphing from semi-amusing, little bit whiny, harmless GrammaComic to grating beyond-the-grave-plastic-marionette-escaped-from-a-shallow-grave-zombie-cyborg-idiot. Not a very appealing transition. The Obama Nation has truly become an Obamanation. The poor bastard can’t seem to get no love from bank-bailout weary, government stimulus shafted, unemployed, foreclosed and shitting-their-pants-about-how-to-pay-for-Christmas-insanity voters.

And now this. By this, I mean Sarah Palin’s Alaska. Just when the public could not possibly feel more out of touch with the wacky spending, Zegna suit wearing, economic rescue flubbing Democrat White House, along comes Sarah. There she is, larger than life, pullin’ fish out of the net with her kids, wearin’ gumboots around town, making dinner and preaching the value of hard work and determination being the keys to life success. Throw in a little bit of Halibut clubbin’ and Reindeer blastin’ and you are looking at the fixin’s of a recipe for a big public perception headache on the horizon for the Trillion Dollar Baby White House Gang. Never mind the part where Sarah gets choked up trying to articulate her hopes and dreams for her youngest son, who was born with Down’s Syndrome. Voter connection alert! Despite objections from longtime Beltway insiders who considered such things beneath them, the Obama administration has produced a sort of “reality TV rebuttal” to the Sarah Palin TLC series called Barack Obama’s ‘Merica aimed at the reg’lar folk and their all important votes. We here at Oh for ****’s Sake, given our stature in the world of fabricated expository journalism, have obtained advance copies of several episodes of the new series aimed at reconnecting with a disenfranchised segment of the voting public in America: Everyone but the Obama administration and Wall Street douches. Let us have a look at one of our favourite episodes and see how they did, shall we?:

Episode 2: Campin’, Pt.1

“Act brave kids, these common folk can smell fear.”

Episode 2 is part 1 of a two part story arc that begins in a fashion many regular Americans can easily relate to: The Obamas decide to embark on a family vacation to explore one of the nation’s many amazing and wondrous national parks. In the opener, Michelle and Barack Obama are seen having a candid, apparently unedited conversation over a breakfast of foie gras and white truffle quail’s egg omelettes in which they discuss which national park might be their best destination in order to meet the most ~~dirty unwashed~~ regular American voter folk. Although Barack seems set on going to DisneyWorld, Michelle finally convinces him a trip to Yellowstone Park might be more appropriate because it is out West where there might be some voters that haven’t heard of him before and it has the added bonus of sounding “ethnic.” The Obamas are then shown in a typical American family wacky pre-camping scenario, trying to search in vain through their wardrobes for “hayseed” clothes for their trip. Ultimately, they end up sending an obviously harried White House staffer out on a government Lear jet for a quick trip the the Manhattan Bloomingdales “outdoor adventure” department to purchase much needed camping clothes. Barack shows he is ahead of the game however, and in a move that will undoubtedly foster a feeling of kinship with voters, produces his favourite navy blue camping blazer, waxing sentimentally about how he once wore it to a philosophical debate in the wilds of the University of Wyoming. The viewers can feel his awe and respect for the natural world as he describes his nerve wracking outdoors experience walking from the limousine to the campus auditorium at the university. At night, no less!

The rest of the episode plays out in a fairly predictable fashion with the family piling into their private jumbo jet and flying off to Yellowstone. Along the way, they participate in the usual family activities to break up a two hour flight that I think we can all relate to from our own childhood. They have a little champagne (non-alcoholic for the kids of course!) and brie, and learn a little about their destination, useful fun filled holiday factoids like “There are a lot of redneck crackers there” and “Don’t start any conversations with a Republican Idealogue.” Before the plane touches down, the Obamas are treated to a special “Wild America” style briefing from the head of their Secret Service security detail, that instructs the Obama family about what to do in the event of a “Bear and/or Hick Attack.” Viewers will be surprised to learn that the steps are eerily similar with the exception that the last resort, playing dead, might be unlikely to work on the hick who has already become accustomed to kicking, punching, and torching limp lifeless Wall Street effigy dummies. Episode 1 fades to black with the Obamas exiting the family minivan (Air Force One), filled with excitement about the adventure to come over the scheduled three hours set aside for their National Park vacation. Rumour has it that Episode 2 contains a quick visit by Barack to a local landmark known as “The Real Old Faithful,” a storied local outhouse with a glory hole where Vice President Joe Biden is said to have worked the graveyard shift while he was trying to put himself through law school. Viewers will feel an instant connection to Obama as he places his hand on the cracked wall of the faded, fallen into disrepair hut of anonymous "oratory" and looks off into the distance, his voice almost a whisper: “Joe, this nation needs you now more than ever.” Powerful stuff, sure to create a real sympathy with viewers who are also in a tough bind in their own lives.

Episode 4 showcases another quintessentially American past time, the family fishing trip, a screenshot of which is shown below. If it has one-tenth of the amount of “just reg’lar folk” vibe that the Yellowstone camping trip episode contains, Barack is almost guaranteed ride an upswell of voter sympathy that should cause him to lose the election in 2012 far less dismally than most pundits would have forecast.

“This is just like I remember fishing trips with my Dad. And our Butler, Jeeves. He always did such a great job of feeling my excitement for me, as a good fishing guide should.”

Cracka Rappa Lack-a?

2010-08-21T12:22:00.001-07:00

“Do these pants make my boner look fat?”

Hey folks! Exciting news! Recent events in my life have inspired me to undertake a fresh and super-interesting life direction. What kind of recent events in a person’s life could cause such a potentially ~~ill conceived~~ great decision? Why nothing less than the White Person Triumvirate of Life Experience Awesomeness: Unaccomplished Life Goals, Divorce, and Self-Pitying Depression! Awesome really doesn’t do it justice, people. We might even be talking super awesome here. So anyhow, the other day I was sitting around my swinging bachelor pad on my shitty futon in my underwear, feeling my ass fall asleep and munching on a Pizza Pop when it occurred to me. What the world needs now is a fresh new take on music! Sure we’ve got Lady Gaga, a true inspiration to drag queens and bulimic pre-pubescent girls everywhere, and bands like Paramore keeping the Twi-Hards busy cutting themselves waiting for JacobWard to show up and sweep them off to the Netherworld, but who’s doing something for those of us that are rapidly approaching *ahem* middle age and yet still yearn for some measure of relevance? Well, how about me? I have always secretly yearned to live the life of the Suburban Cracka Rappa, and what better time than now to follow my dream? Christ knows I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’m getting a little tired of the nipple burns from the hot pizza sauce squirting out of the Pizza Pops. I know what you are thinking. There may be a few minor hurdles to overcome to reach my goals, and I agree. The biggest one obviously is the selection of my new Cracka Rappa name. I’ve decided that my musical approach will be to combine fresh new world music sounds with traditional hip-hop bitch-and-bling lyrics. Can you say numero uno with a bullet, people? I’ve rendered my choices down to three potential candidates and hopefully my three readers will be kind enough to weigh in and help me choose the winner:

Tae-Kwon Joe

This one is a no brainer really. Rappers love barbecue, and Suburban Cracka Rappas love Korean Barbecue (mall restaurant style, not the real thing). I had considered Kim-Jong Illin’ but decided against it due to the possibility of offending my shitty-music-hungry massive new media purchasing neighbours to the south. Shout out! Love ya ‘mericans! The possibility of Dear Leader issuing a copyright infringement assassination order did cross my mind too. The mashup of traditional North Korean Demigod worshipping dirges and ripped off David Guetta riffs combined with videos full of miniskirted Korean girls washing my Prius with their soapy body parts should be a sure fire recipe for success. Speaking of recipes, intercutting images of slow roasting succulent Korean barbecue in between the tits, ass, and mayonnaise product placements should be a hit with my target audience too. First single idea? How about a Korean/Cracka fusion of a Pat Benatar classic: Rove is a Batterfield?

Al-Playeda

There may be few risks associated with attempting to meld traditional Middle Eastern rhythms with shallow, materialistic, and godless western jams. Chief among them are the possibility of inciting a Fatwa and/or intense scrutiny from Homeland Security types. Truth is, that should be good for a few downloads anyway. Let’s face it, these people aren’t doing a great job of getting along, so maybe it’s time for a true leader to emerge and take the bullshit by the horns, so to speak. For obvious reasons that leader should be a Suburban Cracka Rappa. What are my qualifications for uniting these worlds with my musical culture fornication? Seriously? I negotiated the return of a broken Ab Roller once with a counting-the-minutes-until-suicide WalMart customer service rep without a receipt. Case closed, people. First single idea? How about a Bedouin/Cracka mashup of the Frank Sinatra classic All of Me called Allah Me? Just a sec, I’ll be right back there’s a guy knocking at my door with a cell phone in his hand and a strangely thick waistline for such a skinny fella.

Mo-Ko-Rruption

I chose this name based on my interest in merging the musical styles of Post-Soviet Russia with big-chain and sideways Zoo York hat white rap. Mostly I was inspired by the rich variety of post-communist Russian music video fodder. If you had to make a checklist of stuff you need for a rap video, Russia can hook you up, be-i-ee-i-yotch! Slutty scantily clad new-money big haired tramps? Check. Tanks, fighter planes, and Nukes? Check. Scary sunglass-at-night wearing motherfuckers with freaky tats and guns? Check. More potato vodka than you could use in a lifetime of Cracka Rappa videos (a lifetime of Cracka Rappa videos=three)? Checkaroo. Getting a Russian manager would be a great idea too. It should only take about eight or ten A&R guys to show up in the trunks of abandoned stolen cars until a bidding war breaks out for a big music label to have me on their roster and promote the shit out of me. First single idea? Putin’ on the Ritz. I am sure the dude from Taco could use a royalty cheque. Super badly.

Great Moments in Scientific Achievement, Part Deux

2010-06-16T22:57:00.001-07:00

Man, it has been a while since I stopped around these parts to drop a healthy dollop of smarmalade on the world, but things have been just a little crazy these last few months. In no particular order: I was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in Blogerature (It’s new), awarded to “Blogerati that strive to push the boundaries of inconsequential meanderings to pathetic Death Valley-like lows.” I appeared on a tear-jerking episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show to tell my heartbreaking story of the childhood sexual abuse I suffered by my own hands. You should have seen the eyes well up when I detailed how bad the abuse got during puberty, particularly during the perilous month following the publication of Sports Illustrated’s annual swimsuit issue. I appeared in a fawning interview segment on The O’Reilly Factor to promote my new unauthorized biography of Barack Obama, “I, Devil.” Bill is so much nicer in person and when you’re on the same page as him! Hmm, what else have I been up to? Oh, yeah. Fuck all. Lately, however, the odd news item has grabbed my attention and forced me to acknowledge the world around me. Since I have a particular interest in all things scientific, I found the following tidbits of momentous scientific achievement too amazing to not share with those of you who haven’t actually literally decomposed waiting for my next post:

Bangladeshi (yes, that’s a real word dickhead) Scientists Have Sequenced the Genome of Jute!

Remember me? You don’t? Well, up yours then.

Aaah, Jute. Back in the ‘70s you were all over the place, popping up in Macrame crafts and all sorts of little woven boxes to hold pot and umm… other pot. You carried the feminist flag high with your formless, unflattering, scratchy fashions that all but guaranteed no disgusting man would even attempt to try and touch anyone wearing you. You really were the belle of the fashion-less ball. Unfortunately, the ‘80s came along, and spandex and PVC arrived to celebrate -nay, glorify- the female form, and you were kicked right the fuck to the curb where you belonged all along, with your unwashed hippie cousin hemp. So what have you been up to all this time? Apparently waiting for advances in genomic sequencing so that you could pounce back into the world spotlight! Somehow you used your trickery and subterfuge to convince Bangladeshi (still a real word) scientists that discovering your genome’s secrets was important enough to ignore other silly little issues troubling the plucky nation of Bangladesh. Issues like child labour, poverty, malnutrition, and death. Good for you, Jute! Child labour, poverty, malnutrition, and death? Sorry, better luck next time.

Danish Scientists Have Developed a Gum For Kenyan Kids Fortified With the Goodness of Vitamin A!

“No, kids, no food today! We have something even better for you! That’s right! It’s gum!”

Leave it up to the Dutch to come up with a truly wonderful solution to the pesky problem of African hunger. Danish scientists from a company in Dutchmark called Gumlink have developed a gum containing Vitamin A to be given to malnourished African children. Gumlink? The company’s name sounds like every pack of gum should come with a wireless router or Bluetooth device of some sort. Christ the Dutch are weird. Anyhoo, these brilliant scientists, working together with the Kenyan Ministry of Health and Bad Corporate Team Up Decisions developed the gum to be marketed to 3 to 5 year old children to help enhance that target demographic’s health status. Oh, and I meant marketed. I misspoke earlier when I said they were going to give it to the children. My bad. Some casual observers (me) questioned the value of spending all that money to design a gum when it could have been spent on say, food, for the starving kids. However a remarkably well-fed representative from Gumstink assured me that the development cost could have, at most, fed all the kids in Africa for only 3 or 4 years, and everyone knows most people want to live a lot longer than that! Glad we cleared that up, Crazy Danes.

Scientists Developing “Female Viagra” Report Test Results Depressingly Flaccid

“But Dear, I didn’t take my Viagra yet!” “Don’t worry, honey-bunch,I’ve got an enormous chemically-induced chick-boner.”

Scientists revealed recently that clinical trials of the so called “female Viagra,” a drug called Flibanserin, failed to show any difference in female arousal when compared with a placebo. Hmm. I wonder why. When pressed to further clarify results from the study, the scientists pointed out that the arousal of a female turns out to be a much more complicated process than the arousal of a male, which consists chiefly of getting a woody and pointing it at something. I am sure the name “Flibanserin” didn’t help either. When you hear the word “Viagra” it conjures up vague images of impressive, waterfall sized boners and orgasmic crescendos. When you hear the word “Flibanserin” you think of a shitty Robin Williams Disney movie and nerve gas. Talk about a female boner-killer. The nerve gas angle is a bit of a buzzkill too. The scientists also admitted that although the drug had promise biochemically, it did nothing to help with women’s resentment about their partner’s ever-increasing spare tires and inability to deliver on any of the promises they had ever made. They also had an awfully hard time fitting the Brad Pitt and Clive Owen bodysuits into the little pill bottles. They conceded that for now, women would have to make do with the tried and true method of female arousal: humping someone who’s better than their partner.

Fly On The Wall

2010-02-07T23:33:00.001-08:00

Haven’t we all wished at some point in our lives that we could be the proverbial “fly on the wall” and listen in on someone’s conversations? Maybe you wished you could have overheard what your parents were talking about in their bedroom when you showed up back home from summer camp a few pounds overweight…well, pregnant actually. The water glass against their bedroom wall let you make out a few shouted words like: “shameless” and “whore” but you have no way of knowing if they were used in a sentence like: “Thank God our daughter isn’t some shameless whore.” That’s probably what it was though. Or maybe it would have been neat-o to hear what your college roommate’s friend had to say about you after you took her on that blind date your roommate set up. Christ knows you never got the chance to ask her yourself, what with the stupid restraining order and all.

We here at Oh, For ****’s Sake spend an inordinate amount of time wondering about what goes on behind closed doors, mostly because a lot of those doors get closed right in our face when we try to enter them. Through the miracle of technology, and a none-too conservative dose of peyote fueled hallucino-imagination, we’ve been able to listen in on and/or fabricate some of the everyday goings on of some of our cultural elite. For clarity’s sake, the transcripts include the speaker’s names in order to avoid possible confusion:

At Home With Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, and Suri Cruise:

“Pardon me? Oh, gosh no! Tom doesn’t run! He holds on to the baby when I go for a run to make sure I come back! He’s real helpful with my motivation. To stay with him, that is.”

Tom: Katie! Kaaatiiee! Where are you Katie?!

Katie: I’m right here Tom, across the dining room table from you. I’ve been here the whole time. You can put Suri back in her high chair now.

Tom: Oh, thank goodness! I though you had run off and I was going to have to, you know.

Suri: Does Mommy need to go back to the Scienterology center for more training Daddy?

Tom: Maybe Honey, we’ll see.

Suri: She probably should Daddy, she’s acting like a real asshole.

Tom: Yes she is, Suri. Yes she is.

Kicking Around the House With Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston:

They seem so perfectly content together. In split screen.

Jen: Brad, have you seen my cigarettes?

Ger: I think you threw them out the car window again when that paparazzo just about caught you lighting up back at the grocery store. I can go and get you a new pack if you want, Rachel.

Jen: Would you Brad? That is so nice, it’s just like something Brad would do.

Ger: Hey Rachel, it’s the least I can do. After all you did say you were going to invite Monica over for a threesome this afternoon. I think I’ll stop by Industrial Light and Magic on the way and have them CGI back in my abs for this afternoon as a special treat for you girls.

Jen: That would be wonderful Brad! And I know you would never do something like that for Angelina would you? Well, WOULD YOU??!!

A Little Light Pillow Talk With James Cameron and Satan:

Funny, the Devil on the shoulder is quite a bit bigger in real life than generally represented in the mainstream animation media (cartoons).

James: Well, I’ve got the two biggest grossing movies of all time now, asterisks be damned. I don’t even know what I need you for anymore.

Satan: Hey, what the Hell? I give you all this, make you King of the World, and this is the thanks I get? A wham-bam, thank you Satan? I’m the King of the Underworld, we make a Hell of a great team. *Sigh*, I’ve really got to quit beating people over the head with the “Hell” thing.

James: I just feel like I’ve accomplished a lot, and you got your fair share what with all the people that committed suicide after forcing themselves to sit all the way through Avatar.

Satan: Hey, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all of the damned souls, I just don’t see why we can’t keep the ball rolling. You must have countless more pedestrian, childish screenplays up your sleeve, and I can keep casting the spells over the world to make them love them. Except the fucking critics! Of all the people for God to favour, why the critics?

James: Well now that you mention it, I do have a few ideas. More like ham-fisted simplistic notions really, but hey, that’s your department to help with that!

So Many “Sides” to Every Story

2010-01-23T23:44:00.001-08:00

Sandra Bullock, shown here with costar, umm… Waylon Jennings I think, in “The Blind Side.”

Have you seen the movie The Blind Side yet? It was one of the year’s big hits, and starred Sandra Bullock in easily her most challenging role to date, playing a blonde with some sort of accent, Iranian I think. I went to see it with the whole family, and let me tell you it was quite an uplifting tale. Basically, the story revolves around some rich white folks who take in an underprivileged blind African American kid named “Ray” or “Stevie” I think. Long story short, due to their kindly influence in the boy’s life and their copious sprinklings of cold hard cash around the lad’s environment, he goes on to excel in sports and becomes the first ever blind linebacker to be drafted by the Los Angeles Dodgers or something like that. Truth is, I was a little bit loaded when we went to see the movie, and the details are a little hazy. It usually takes me a coffee cup or two of gin to get through “family time.” At least this time my wife told me that I didn’t tell everyone what I really thought of them for a change. That’s good because I like to save that for special occasions like big family dinners, Bar Mitzvahs, and Christenings. Maybe the odd funeral.

Anyway, after the film’s huge success, movie studios were scrambling to recreate The Blind Side’s golden touch at the box office. Exit polls of the film’s viewers were instrumental in determining that the chief reason most people had gone to see the movie was in fact the inclusion of the word “side” in the movie’s title. Surprisingly, North Americans are head-over-heels in love with “sides” of all kinds. There is the ubiquitous side of fries with a side of gravy, sides of beef, cheap shot sideswipes at political opponents, and Tiger’s personal favourite: gettin’ a little on the side. All of these “sides” are integral parts of our societal fabric, and the sides of fries and beef are also largely responsible for the ever-increasing size of our clothing fabric. Naturally, the studios have been quick to capitalize on this love affair with “sides” leading to a glut of movies being released in 2010 with the magic word in the title:

The Down Side

Release Date: Summer 2010

“I think I’m a little too wasted to pull this off, Angie.” “Just do exactly as I say, you fucking Ken doll.”

Starring: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie

Plot: A psychotic and loosely wound showbiz progeny meets a down and out Sexiest Man Alive honoree and chronic co-star humper on the set of a movie both are set to star in. She lures him away from America’s Sweetheart Rachel Baniston and proceeds to introduce him to a fantastic world he never dared believe he could be a part of: the world of marriage, fatherhood, and being chased around the house with knives during arguments over who used the last of the toilet paper. He also becomes associated with the United Nations, both in a family way, as well as through inappropriate UN appointments for his wife. He soon finds the wonderful world he has become a part of has one chilling down side, however: her.

The Right Side

Release Date: Summer 2010

“Who needs an IQ when you’ve got your own TV show and a MILF haircut?”

Starring: Bill O’Reilly and Sarah Palin

Plot: A philanthropic and misunderstood bullying, screeching right-wing television talking head comes across a woman in a fine restaurant eating cheesecake with her bare hands and drinking Budweiser from the can. Somewhere beneath his revulsion, he finds himself wondering about her potential. Could she be a Vice Presidential candidate for the Republican Party one day? He sets about on a Pygmalion-like journey with her, starting with introducing her to his rarified high society world; the use of utensils; teaching her to speak; how to use a variety of guns for both self-defense and simple pleasure, and of course, a strong educational grounding in the disciplines of Judgmentalism and Ignorance. Through their journey together, they learn many things from each other. Bill teaches Sarah not to be afraid of threesomes with high priced escorts, and how to properly pronounce “Shot Op!” ;she teaches him how to deal with an unplanned pregnancy and kill a moose with one’s bare hands.

The Left Side

Release Date: Fall 2010

“Ooooh, baby I love your way!” “That’s it Jenna, keep it together. Just stare straight ahead, it will all be over soon.”

Starring: Edward Norton and Jenna Elfman

Plot: A crusading environmental lawyer (Norton) goes to the High Arctic to serve the seal clubbing fleet with a stop work injunction issued by the World’s outrage. While on the ice floes, he meets a kooky, environmentally aware, albino Inuit woman (Elfman) who has been running from floe to floe, throwing herself between the sealer’s clubs and the perplexed seal cubs. Although beaten badly, and barely recognizable, Elfman’s courage inspires Norton to take her back to New York with him on his private hybrid 737 jet. He introduces her to the world of high level meetings on important issues like Climate Change © and Carbon Footprints © and teaches her how to properly encrypt her emails so they can’t be hacked by evil Oil Barons. Through their mutual love of recycling, bicycling, and carbon cycling, a bond is forged between them, and they fall in love. Elfman becomes the first albino Inuit woman to be appointed UN High Commissioner of Dubious Environmental Claims, while Norton is called to Washington to head President Obama’s Council on Greening the Shit out of Everything.

Wow, as usual Hollywood has gone all out in it’s efforts to please the masses once again! I for one might even go to see some of these movies sober. If I can get the family to stay home, that is.

2009, The Year in Rear-View

2010-01-17T01:01:00.001-08:00

Finally, the holiday season is over. I think. I’ve been a little out of the loop for awhile, what with the Shitmas insanity, skull-crushing stress inducing work situation, and general festive season malaise (I think malaise is French for “Fuck, enough of this shit for one year, already!). I also made the mistake of going to watch Avatar, which took up the better part of the last two weeks. Jesus, that was one long movie, thank goodness the message was so uplifting and deep and inspiring and moving and heavy-handed and browbeating and super-awesome….aw, Christ, I just threw up on myself. I’ll be back in a minute.

There! Fresh as a daisy. Nothing a quick wipe with an antibacterial Lysol wipe, a snazzy new pair of Underoos and a freshly mixed Tom Collins can’t fix! Now where was I? Oh yeah, I was celebrating the end of the festive season and dreading the countdown to the beginning of the next Shitmas shopping season which begins on July 31st for 2010, I think. Another thing about Avatar? What do you think will come out on top, Avatar’s worldwide box office gross or charitable donations to the Haitian relief effort? I think I know, but I sure hope I’m wrong. And on a related note: Pat Robertson, you are truly a godless douchebag. Seriously, you have taken douchenificence to a whole new level with that “pact with the Devil” thing. Oh, well, I can take some comfort in the fact that you will get a chance soon to ask him yourself, you ain’t exactly a Spring Chicken anymore Patty-boy.

Now that we are a couple of weeks into the new year, I thought I would take a little time to reflect on some of the events of 2009 that I found interesting, presented here in no particular order:

Health Care Reform in The Good Ol’ U.S. of A ~~– holes~~

Ha Ha! That idiot spelled “Honkies” wrong, and that woman cut the “Barely” off the top of her sign!

Now this was some good stuff. I never got tired of watching blood-pressure controlled, Type II diabetic oldsters shrieking and shouting and sign-waving, spittle and dentures inadvertently flying from their mouths in Town Hall meetings all across America. C’mon, you have to admit that took some serious sack for those poor politicians to face those insane mobs. Wouldn’t the people in the photo above be happy to know that when their morbid obesity finally claims their ability to work and pay for health insurance, the government will provide a feeding tube for them to mainline pureed Big Macs free of charge? Just what have the angry mobs heard anyway? I hope no one told them what we do here in Canada. It’s not so much of a Logan’s Run type of thing, it’s more of a put-the-old-folks- and-sickies-on-an-ice-floe-for-cheap-cooling in preparation for a Soylent Green type of thing.

Celebrities Behaving Awesomely, Awesomelessly, and Deatheningly

In retrospect, Taylor Swift should be happy it was this guy coming at her and not Tiger Woods.

As usual celebrities kept us entertained with all of their wacky hijinks. Good ol’ Kanye descended further into madness and scared the living shit out of Taylor Swift, much to our collective amusement. A note of advice to Taylor: If you are ever about to be interrupted on stage mid-speech again, just quickly turn sideways as the perp is approaching, and they won’t be able to see you. Could someone from the “Health Care Reform” picture above lend her a piece of pizza? Susan Boyle became an instant celebrity and overnight YouTube sensation, plucking the heartstrings of millions with her surprising singing talent. Surprising on account of you know, because she didn’t look like Britney Spears (if Britney had talent). It’s amazing. Who knew normal-looking people could sing? Except maybe the reality-bending producers of Britain’s Got Talent. You have heard of preliminary auditions, haven’t you people? Finally, the music world and the world of loser fans with nothing better to do than worship creepy transparent kiddie touchers lost an icon this year, when Wacko Jacko died from an overdose of….some sort of intravenous sedative that he used to help him sleep? What the Hell? Celebrities lives are even more amazing than I thought, and so are their deaths! “I’m gonna let y’all finish in a minute, I just wanna say that Elvis had one of the best celebrity deaths of all time!” Yeah, yeah. Fuck off, Kanye.

Not to be outdone by Michael Jackson, the world economy continued it’s own downward death spiral, taking yours, mine, and the guy next door’s job with it. Charmingly, it was nice enough leave CEOs relatively unscathed, as Canadian reports of average CEO earnings being 174 times the average worker’s salary emerged. Can you imagine the talk in the C-Suites after that little shit-nugget of news popped out? I can imagine it went something like this: “174 times?! 174!? Are you serious? Nobody orders 174 Mercedes! I mean a number like 175 or 200, I can understand, but 174? What kind of a stupid number is that? Let’s pull our fucking socks up and try harder next year people!”

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge Tiger’s contributions to the world that was 2009. Undercover Brother was right, the skinny blonde white woman truly is “Black Man’s Kryptonite.” Hey Tiger, I hear Kate Gosselin is on the market. She’s got a wee bit of baggage, but she doesn’t golf so you shouldn’t have to spend as much time ducking nine irons.

Thanksgiving? Oh, That Reminds Me, Time to Start Thinking About Christmas!

2009-11-28T01:10:00.001-08:00

So today was Black Friday in the good ‘ol US of A. Black Friday? What kind of a name is that for the day after Thanksgiving? Or for that matter, for the traditional first day of the Christmas shopping season? After a great deal of searching through the Encyclopedia Britannica (you might be more familiar with it as “Wikipedia”), I discovered that the term Black Friday originated as term of disdain leveled at the day by Philadelphia city police officers that had to deal with the traffic jams full of morons swarming downtown in search of discounted white patent leather platform boots and pinstripe bell bottom pants among other must-have Christmas gift items. What? No, I’m not talking about the ‘70s, it’s Philadelphia for Christ’s sake! Come to think of it, why the hell is Thanksgiving so bloody late down there anyway? We have ours here in Canada in October, which is the time of year that Canadian statisticians roughly estimate the season of Fall to occur. It’s a little tough to tell what with Spring being from about March 1st to 15th, and Summer being from approximately March 16th to April 1st or so. Basically the leaves start to turn any time after that. If they’ve been able to burst forth through the permafrost, that is. Depends on the year. Hopefully this year the Slack-Jawed Friday shoppers left most of their guns at home so you didn’t have too many more incidents like last year when two men in Palm Desert, California shot each other to death after arguing over a toy in a local Toys “R” Us store. That reminds me of a funny Weird Al Yankovic song parody of Green Day’s “American Idiot” called “Canadian Idiot” in which Weird Al sneers that Canadians go to the mall and don’t even pack heat. It’s not quite as funny in real life for the traumatized tots and pants-pissing parents that had to witness that psychotic bullshit go down in Palm Desert, I would imagine. What a fucking nuthouse. Well, all that being said, there is definitely a chill in the air, and I don’t think it’s only from the amassed glacial intellects lined up all over the US for Sarah Palin book signings (Make your X, Sarah!).

I guess it is time to start thinking about ~~Shitmas~~ Christmas, as much as we don’t want to. It’s not like it’s been a great year for everyone, and times are tough all over, with the possible exception of the C-Suite dickheads, who seem to have weathered the storm on boats constructed of wads of government stimulus cash. I guess I shouldn’t be so cynical, I mean if we didn’t have monster salaries and bonuses for shittily performing CEOs, what would the guy who cleans the toilets for minimum wage have to aspire to? I mean really, would anyone want a job in the Big Office if they had to go to work in a Cadillac instead of a Bentley? How embarrassing. That’s not the attitude our countries were built on, people! So in that spirit, I have amassed a short list of Christmas gift suggestions for the person who wants everything, from the person who has nothing:

How about a wacky European General Motors Division?

“Do you have any idea what my shirt says? Fuck no, I don’t have a goddamn clue.”

For some reason, the bright lights at General Motards decided at the last minute that it was a bad idea to sell Opel to Canadian autoparts giant Magna International. Apparently they have decided they know how to make money now (Hint: go broke through stupidity, get government bailout, start to tell everyone you know what you’re doing again). Well, Magna’s loss is your gain! Obviously GM will go tits-up again soon, probably well before Christmas so here’s your chance to give someone a very unique gift at a bargain-basement price. It’s not every day you can buy a lazy, overstuffed, heavily unionized, 35 hour per week working matchbox-car making company with the money left on your Visa’s credit limit. And just think, next year you can give everyone in your family an Opel in their stocking!

Or Maybe Dubai!

“I’m a little teapot, short and stout…”

I know what you’re thinking. How can I afford Dubai? Well, at this price, how can you afford not to buy it? I mean even for the friend who has everything, I bet they don’t own a pie-in-the-sky wannabe Arab Las Vegas (minus the tits, ass, booze, and fun). I hear it’s going up on Ebay early next week so it can sell in time for Christmas and get this: no reserve! Better get your sniping hand ready though, because rumour has it that Herbert Walker Bush himself has his sights set on it for Sonny-Boy for Christmas. It’s also rumoured he plans to change the name to Dubya, just to rub Iran and the Taliban’s face in it. Don’t waste any time, you’d better get practicing on some other in-demand Ebay items like Lindsay Lohan’s pride (why she ever sold it in the first place, we’ll never know, she badly needs it now), and that Yankee World Series home-run ball the Phillies fan threw back on the field (priceless!).

Or Even…H1N1!

Health: 1, Dignity: 0

Okay, maybe giving someone a dread set of the sniffles isn’t the nicest thing a person could do at Christmas, but let’s face it, the person who has everything is probably also insulated from all of the grubby peasants and their infections and pestilence. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for them! They were probably too stupid to even go and get vaccinated, thinking that their rarified Country Club air is unlikely to carry the bugs of the unwashed masses. Some great people to think of for this heartfelt gift are say, your rich condescending neighbours, or even your boss (and his boss!). The best part is, it’s all but free! You probably haven’t been able to get a shot yet anyway due to silly obligations like working two jobs and caring for flu-ridden relatives. All you have to do is head down to your local hospital, lick a few doorknobs and elevator buttons and you should be in business. As you sit in your cubicle trying to do your work through your fevered haze, your boss will probably come around with everyone’s Christmas bonus of a month’s free parking in the company lot or a voucher for two free coffees in the break room or something. Make sure you give him a big hug to thank him, and Oops! cough right in his stupid face! Oh, and those neighbours? Make sure the next time you take their mail to them from the mailbox at the end of their driveway that you slobber all over it, real thorough-like.

Hopefully some of these thrifty, yet unique gift ideas help you with the difficult task of Christmas shopping this year! What’s that? Christ no, I do not want a hug you goddamned Typhoid Mary wannabe! Sorry Mom, I guess that was a little harsh. Maybe we could hug next year?

Apple © Brand-y

2009-11-19T20:46:00.001-08:00

“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!

2009-10-20T23:07:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-10-14T23:15:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-10-03T20:01:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-29T22:05:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-09-06T22:33:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-08-27T21:41:00.001-07:00

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 Nether~~world~~lands 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!

Better Hos and Gardens, August 2009

2009-08-15T15:58:00.001-07:00

It was recently brought to our attention that a member of our family was going to be appearing in a popular magazine with a worldwide distribution! Imagine our pride when we found out that our little cousin was going to be appearing in her own feature article in one of the most widely read and respectable home and gardening magazines on the market, Better Homes and Gardens! I mean let’s face it, a day with a new issue of Better Homes and Gardens, a new episode of Martha Stewart Living, and a trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond is like the boring white people Holy Grail Trifecta for a Saturday!

We always knew Trixie would someday get the recognition she deserved for all of her hard work in her garden. After weeks of anticipation, her issue finally hit the newsstands, and we all rushed out to buy a copy. Imagine our dismay, when after leafing through the latest issue, her article was nowhere to be found. As I was muttering to my wife about the fickle publishing business, she pointed out another magazine on the rack, it’s cover mostly hidden by a black barrier. Better Hos and Gardens? Uh-Oh. Well, I guess on the upside, one member of our family finally made it, after a fashion. It could have been worse, I guess. I’ve excerpted the article here:

Better Hos and Gardens, Issue 342, August, 2009

“Turning Trixie”

“Hey, Sailor, want to help me in the garden?” “Oh, you’re not a sailor? Have you ever been on a boat? You have? Cool.”

This month’s pinup Trixie hails from the buzzing metropolis of Fort St. John, British Columbia, located smack dab between the North Pole and the North American treeline, or somewhere thereabouts. She likes to joke that “everyone can use more than one “hoe” in the garden!” In this photo Trixie is getting ready to go to work and she always makes sure she has all the essential supplies for an afternoon weeding the flowerbed: A couple of coolers (with a wine glass, quite a lady!), a pack of cigarettes, a gigantic feather duster, and a matching colour-coordinated hairdo and top.

“Look at all the weeds! This garden seriously needs a good ~~Brazilian~~ weeding!”

This action shot shows Trixie at a full gallop, inspecting the flowerbed for weeds! She’s so efficient! Look out, Trixie, that lawn is almost high enough to cover your hooker pumps, and that could cut down on visits from drive-by ~~customers~~ friends! Alternating standing legs in this fashion is highly advisable to ensure a girl is adequately ~~advertising her wares~~ avoiding fatigue.

“Is this shoot almost over? I go on stage at the Fort St. John Autobody Shop and Burlesque All You Can Eat Buffet Grill at four.”

Why so sad, Trixie? Could it be that you’ve just realized how important it is for a girl to always use a glove at work? Not using a glove can lead to all sorts of nasty fungus and molds growing in the garden, and that could keep a girl out of commission for weeks, not to mention the high cost of all those ~~medications~~ fertilizers and pesticides to deal with the problem.

“Oh, my aching morals!”

Finally, Trixie shows our readers the proper technique for weeding the garden. She knows a true lady never bends at the knee in order to avoid potential knee strain and a decrease in tips. She only did it in the previous picture to demonstrate the improper technique, and you can tell by the look on her face, she wasn’t too happy about it, even for educational purposes. Many thanks for having us along on your afternoon gardening adventure, Trixie. We can’t wait to come back this winter, when she told us she’s going to show us how to put a snowboarding halfpipe in the backyard while wearing a bikini and Mukluks.

(With many, many thanks to my insane cousin from Fort St. John. Yes, my real cousin. No, Trixie is not her real name. Her and her crazy friends were having a burlesque stagette for their girlfriend and decided to take some photos of working around the yard for a laugh. She put them up on Facebook and I asked her permission to use them for this post. Yes, my family is in fact this goofy and fun. Getting together consists pretty much of one thing: laughing.)

Great Moments in Scientific Achievement, Part Un (French for “Uhh…”)

2009-08-12T20:26:00.001-07:00

Every once in a while scientists conduct a study that proves to be a watershed moment in the history of scientific achievement. These hard working nerd-people dig deep into the mysteries of our world in their never ending quest for knowledge. They seek to increase our collective understanding of the world through intensive and rigorous testing, study, and experimentation. These people aren’t in it for the glory, or the fame. They don’t care that nobody knows they were the Captain of their college Dungeons and Dragons team, or that they were the only one out of the sixteen people dressed as Klingons at the Science Department Halloween party that could actually speak Klingon.

Why just last night on NOVA: Science Now (yeah, yeah, I know. Paris Hilton’s New BFF wasn’t on yet), I learned from one delightful scientist fellow that Leeches have many roles to play in the medical field, some of them quite helpful. I had previously thought that Leeches’ roles in the medical field were confined to the ambulance-chasing malpractice lawyer and the health-care reform pushing politician. Turns out they have other uses, like sucking pus and blood and rotten shit out of gangrenous wounds. A less glamorous, but eerily similar role to that of the lawyers and politicians. I also learned from some other astronomer-scientist types that the people involved in the SETI search for intelligent life in the universe project are now composed of under 80% Trekkies, a startling achievement on the road to acceptance by the public at large. It was also interesting to learn that in order to set a baseline for the intelligence detecting instrument, the scientists trained it on the US Congress, and were able to calibrate the machine to absolute zero! Good thinking, geeks!

Seeing some of the great work being done out in the world of scientific investigation made it all the more worrisome when I stumbled across the following headline; not exactly one of those watershed moments in scientific history:

“Study Suggests Binge Drinking Affects Memory”

Well I guess this is where the rubber meets the road, so to speak. If the nerds that conducted this particular study had spent more time at frat parties and less time signing up for Psyc Department studies as guinea pigs, they wouldn’t have needed to conduct this study at all. Those of us who have undertaken “binge drinking” (or as we used to call it “drinking”) could have told anyone that would listen that of course binge drinking affects memory. It is simple mental self preservation. If it didn’t affect memory, how the hell would we have been able to live through this:

Without binge drinking affecting our memory, imagine our embarrassment when people found out our parents had never shown us how to sit properly on a bench? Thank God our friends were nice enough to be respectful about our disability and not point out that we had shown our handicap while under the influence of binge drink.

The memory-affecting qualities of binge drinking cushioned this poor girl from having to remember her sudden bout of narcolepsy at her Grandparents’ garden party. She was probably better off not knowing that she had dozed off in the middle of Grandma’s “Tour of the Tulips.”

Luckily for this happily dozing binge drinker, his lack of memory of the evening’s events should prevent him from having to deal with the triple mental trauma of the memories of pissing himself, wearing a Hulkamania T-Shirt, and being caught on camera drinking a Miller Lite.

Now here’s a perfect example of binge drinking’s ability to take a potentially reputation-smearing, life-altering event and turn it into a hazy, imperceptible, shadowy memory that is almost impossible to recall, if it can be recalled at all. The poor fellow on the left has probably battled car sickness since he was a small child, or perhaps he had a bad prawn at dinner that night. Either way, he can’t be blamed for the action occurring in the photo above. If he had any sense at all, he would have begun binge-drinking immediately after this photo was taken, and not stopped until the incident was buried deeply in his subconscious. It would probably be recommended that his somewhat startled companions might also want to binge-drink this particular memory away as well.

Despite all of the good work being done by scientists around the world, they didn’t exactly hit one out of the park with this study. They could have saved a lot of time and money by just doing a little binge-drinking, blacking out, waking up, looking at their vomit stained shirt and piss-soaked pants, and saying to themselves “Ahhh…I see.”

House, Seasons 1-4 on DVD, the Synopsis Review.

2009-08-08T00:21:00.001-07:00

Hello again! Has it been five days since I last posted already? I know I should have been spending more time writing this week, but I’ve been pretty busy. How busy, you ask? Well, I’ve been spending my evenings watching seasons 1 through 4 of House on DVD, and not doing anything else, so pretty frickin’ busy.

While I was watching the show, I kept thinking of how it would be fun to review an episode and act like one of those high falutin’ TV writers. They’ve got a pretty sweet gig, what with spending their days dissecting the minutiae of today’s awesome assortment of quality programming. With shows like The Bachelorette, The Bachelor, The Bachelor’s Gay Buddy: Cruising for Love, and The Bachelorette’s Friend From That One Time She Experimented in College: A Time to Settle Down, the positive glowing reviews practically write themselves!

It looks pretty easy to me. The only problem was, after watching about 267 hours of House, I couldn’t really pick one episode to review, so I decided what the hell, I’ll review the whole series in a tidy little synopsis. We’ll start with a quick introduction to the main characters to get you up to speed. Here we go!:

From left to right: Drs. Foreskin, Crampon, and Gayce (House’s Medical Team or kids, I’m not sure which); Dr. Gregbert House (Main character probably, the show has the same name); Dr. ~~Cunty~~ Sluddy (Oops! Almost lost my NC-17 there! She’s everybody’s boss); Dr. Wimpson (House’s friend or lover or conscience or something).

The show generally opens with an old or young or medium age person having sex, doing something, thinking about doing something or not doing anything or maybe doing a thing. That person twitches or pukes, or convulses, or has a coma, or drops a bowel or swears at, pukes on, or has explosive diarrhea on someone they love or something, indicating, apparently, illness of some sort. After the opening credits which feature neat medical looking pictures of some stuff that looks medical-ish, the series dialogue between the characters is generally as follows:

Post-Credits Opening Scene; House discusses patient’s case with Medical Team/Children:

House: What’s the differential diagnosis for this stupid loser patient guy/girl/man/woman/Thai Ladyboy?

Foreskin: House, every patient is not a loser just because you have leg issues and a cane you handicapable honky racist douchebag!

Crampon: Maybe it’s Lupus. Or a Lupus-like disorder. Or a disorder that acts like Lupus to throw us off. Or maybe a Lupus-like cancer. Did I mention my husband died of a Lupus-like cancer? If only I had thought of the cancer before I treated the Lupus.

Gayce: My hair looks like this when I roll out of bed. No shit, exactly like this. I know you aren’t believing me, but why would I lie about my hair? C’mon Crampon, want to touch it? No? Foreskin? House? No? Well, fuck all of you then.

House: Foreskin, I would make a black joke at your expense, but it would be wasted on you because you are black. Crampon, your husband committed suicide because you can’t say a sentence that doesn’t contain the word “Lupus,” and I totally understand that feeling now. Gayce, I lied. Yes, I would like to touch your hair, my little Australian Barebacker, I mean “Outbacker.” Long story short, you are all goddamned morons, and I am going to cure the patient myself after I cook up an Eight Ball for breakfast, because that’s what brilliant cranky doctors all over America do. That’s right, folks, all over America. The patients overlook the junkieness for the brilliantness.

Next Scene: House meets patient in attempt to figure out mystery ailment:

House: I’m Dr. House, I’ll be curing you today, you loser/homo/lady homo/retard/dipshit/kindly old patient who is probably a child molester or Iraqi insurgent.

Patient: What’s wrong with me?

House: You, your family, and your unborn children are too stupid to understand anything I might say, so I am not going to talk to you. I am however going to drill a hole in your head or do a lumbar puncture/MRI/Ultrasound/Psychiatric profile/Anal probe or take a swab so I can find out your problem, you useless waste of skin and air.

Patient: Golly, you sure aren’t very nice! (Followed immediately by seizure or vomiting of blood, or vomiting of vomit, or vomiting of urine, or vomiting of lung; maybe vomiting up a coma).

Next Scene: Sluddy tears a strip off of House for his unethical actions:

Sluddy: House, I can’t believe you Anal Probed a patient! Without their consent! With an MRI machine! In the library with a candlestick and Colonel Mustard watching! What’s wrong with you? And stop looking down my shirt and at my ass and up my skirt! It’s “Business Casual,” not “Office Slutty,” asshole. If you pull one more stunt like this I will threaten to fire you if you pull one more stunt like this!

House: Would it help if I told you that during the Anal Probing, I was thinking of you?

Sluddy: It might.

Next Scene: Wimpson tells House he is dead on the inside and will never be loved by anyone:

Wimpson: House, you are dead on the inside and will never be loved by anyone.

House: Fuck you. So are we still on for lunch in the cafeteria? Your treat? Remember to bring me a dimebag of Vicodin too, you “Up with people” freak.

Wimpson: Sounds good! Noon ok?

Final Scene: The big cure, or sometimes not. But mostly, yeah:

Foreskin, Crampon, or Gayce: Gee, who would have thought it would have been (insert unpronounceable and possibly nonexistent medical condition here), and that we could cure the patient in time? Or in about one out of five shows, not cure the patient in time?

House: What do you mean we, do you losers have a frog in your pocket? Now get out of my sight, I have a hooker coming in to the office for an Anal Probing MRI.

The End.

As one can obviously see, House is a series filled with tense medical situations, morality tales, and a monstrous, unshaven, talking asshole. What more could you possibly want in your TV viewing? Well, I agree, it’s no Full House, but really, what is?

It’s Sunday, it Must be Sports Gay, I Mean Day!

2009-08-02T13:29:00.001-07:00

Ah, Sunday. The traditional day of rest. Once a fellow has made the bleary-eyed, pounding-head walk of shame home from whatever Saturday Night Sweetheart’s place he managed to crash at the night before, it’s time to just relax on the couch for the day and enjoy some good old sports action on the television. Turn the ringer off on your phone, strip down to your skivvies, make a plate of nachos for breakfast, and prepare to enjoy some good old fashioned testosterone fueled entertainment.

First off, let’s start the day with a rousing game of soccer, a sport that is considered manly in many parts of the world. Here in North America, we have a difficult time understanding any sport in which only the feet may touch the ball. I mean, we could understand it if it meant that the hands were meant to be used solely for punching your opponent in his stupid face, but turns out, there are other uses for the hands in soccer:

And a million female readers of People magazine turn livid with envy.

Well, that just dipped the manliness quotient a point or two. There are clearly no impediments in the above picture to Beckham’s teammates patting his back or tousling his hair in a “You done good, boy!” Uncle-type congratulation. It is possible Beckham would get pissy if they touched his thousand dollar haircut, but they have clearly made a choice here about a touching spot, and it is the wrong choice.

Okay, well no luck avoiding creepy ass-fondling with the soccer game. Why don’t we watch a good old fashioned game of baseball? Them good-ol-boys know how to keep their hands out of trouble. Hell, they need them for catchin’, throwin’, and hittin’. We should be safe from inappropriate butt-touching there:

“Look, I’m telling her I’m leaving her tonight, I promise. Now let’s just get through this game. I’ve got a booth reserved for us at Club Salsa for later. We can do your favourite, the Lambada! You know how much you love to Lambada.”

What in Christ’s name is going on here now? Obviously, a manly chest-bump would be ineffective due to the catcher’s chest protector. Ha Ha! I said “catcher!” A friendly shin-kick is also out of the question, but there is absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing stopping these fellas from exchanging good natured punches in the shoulder or a manly lean-in, one-arm, back-pat hug. There is no reason to be communicating with any type of bun-huggin’, so why the hell are they doing it?

Professional sports have really gone down the toilet. Our last hope is that testosterone-waving flagship of sport, the bone-crunching, hard-hitting sport of football. We should be able to avoid any awkward, cringe-inducing displays of public affection and concentrate on enjoying the copious amounts of pain and suffering being dished out. We need to salvage this lazy Sunday somehow.

“I hope my Mom isn’t watching.”

Okay, let’s just wait a second here. Maybe there is a good explanation for this. We did just switch the channel and it did go to an advertisement right away so maybe it’s not what it looks like. What it looks like however is a position that has a three beat system attached to it. That is, if they stayed in this position for one beat, no damage done, it’s just an accident. Two beats, well, they can never look each other in the eye again, and they will have to buy their wives a Porsche to help them forget about it. Three beats, they probably have tickets to Fire Island booked for the weekend. We’ll never really know, thankfully, but just to be safe, we’ll assume it was one beat.

Maybe we’ll have better luck checking out some women’s sports, they seem to have a lot more class and know how to act in an appropriate fashion. For safety’s sake though, I think we’ll avoid the LPGA and Women’s Field Hockey. How about a little Beach Volleyball?

“Here, let me give you a hand. Your ass appears to be trying to eat your bikini.”

Jackpot! Finally, some players that can conduct themselves in a professional fashion! In this case, the ass-pat is totally forgivable. To be encouraged, even. Attempting to pat the sand-covered back or shoulder could cause nasty abrasions, traumatic injury, and possible scarring, so the true professional women’s beach volleyball player knows the safest spot to caress lovingly in a congratulatory fashion is the soft and pliable, yet durably toned ass cheek. Well done, ladies!

That was a nice relaxing Sunday. Nothing like getting in a little sports action to make a dude feel like a real man. Now to close out the day with a nice long soak in the tub, the latest issue of Esquire, and a glass of chardonnay and it will be the perfect end to the weekend.

From Beyond the Grave, Part 3

2009-07-30T12:34:00.001-07:00

We know it seems a little early to be bothering Billy so soon after his untimely passing, but honestly, we didn’t think anyone else could have a snowball’s chance in Hell of hawking these products. We caught Billy on a busy Sunday afternoon of blowing out discounted souls in Heaven (3 for 1! No hidden shipping charges! Guaranteed to work or a full refund!) and he agreed to help us out. We really appreciate Billy taking the time to come back and put his classic sales spin on these products. He assured us it was no problem, and that “Heaven Can Wait.” Ha Ha! Good one, Billy! Man, we miss this guy.

Thanks for coming in Billy, take it away!:

“Hi folks! Billy Mays here! Have you been finding yourself feeling a little down lately!? Did some sort of affirmative action loving terrorist bust up your favourite lawn jockey!? Can’t seem to find a way to display your latent racism in a public fashion without some bleeding heart taking you to task for it!? You need the Chia Obama! The Chia Obama fits safely on a windowsill inside your home, out of the reach of liberal vandals, and yet still allows you to show the world that you’re not shy to display creepily racist tokens that seem like artifacts from some bygone era!”

“Imagine the hours of fun you can have with your Chia Obama! You can practice giving him different haircuts or let that sucker grow out until it will hold a pick! Imagine snickering to yourself as you sit him down on the coffee table and force him to watch Bill O’Reilly with you! If you act now, we’ll send you not one, not two, not three, but fifteen Chia Obamas for one low price of $5.99! That’s right, fifteen for the price of one! We’ve got truckloads of these things that aren’t moving, so act now, before you’re the only white supremacist on the block without one! As a final special incentive, if you order before noon today, we’ll send along a voucher for a free Limited Edition Chia Michael Bolton, due to be released as soon as the fine folks at Chia figure out how to get one to grow Shredded Wheat for hair! Don’t delay, folks, order today!”

Wow, nice work, Billy! We’ve just got one more product for you:

“You’re shitting me, right? Oh, well, here goes nothing. Hey, folks, Billy Mays here again! Have you ever found yourself wishing you had an extra hand to help with those everyday tasks around the house!? Ever tried to put the condiments on your hot dog bun, but didn’t have anyone around to hold your wiener while you were doing it!? The Mr. Happy Hand is there for you! Not only will it hold your wiener, when you start up it’s patented Stroke Action ©, it will actually use the awesome power of friction to keep your wiener hot until it’s ready to be put in the bun. Just make sure you don’t start the Stroke Action © motor too soon, because you might find your wiener worn out and limp before it even gets in the bun! It’s that powerful!”

“Use the Mr. Happy Hand to help in the garden, too! It’s patented Stroke Action © is guaranteed to make your hose spray evenly and predictably every time, and unlike your own hands, it will never succumb to carpal tunnel syndrome or bothersome hair growth. Use it around the house to shake the TV remote so you can get those last few clicks out of the batteries! Need both hands to type on your blog!? Use the Mr. Happy Hand to hold onto your kielbasa until it’s lunchtime! The Mr. Happy Hand helps you concentrate on the important tasks at hand, without using your own hands! Order today before midnight and we’ll throw in a free bottle of disinfectant, perfect for cleaning your Mr. Happy Hand after it has completed its various stroking tasks! So order quickly folks, these babies are going fast, some are even going off early, and you sure don’t want to be left holding your own wiener!”

Gee, thanks, Billy! That was great! Say hello to God for us when you get back, I’m sure you guys hang out all the time. Boy, there goes one classy guy. Why do they only take the good ones so young?

B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories, Part 2

2009-07-23T01:16:00.001-07:00

Episode 2: The Day the Music, and Everyone Who Made It, Died.

There have been many feuds in Hollywood over the years. Some of those feuds are well known, such as Brangelina vs. JenJohnandVaughn, and Mel Gibson vs. The Jews Who Run Everything And Are Out To Get Him. It was always thought that the world of children’s television, while a consistent cash cow, was immune to the problems plaguing the mainstream entertainment industry. Through in depth research, guesstimation, and a not-too-unliberal amount of fabrication, we here at B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories have uncovered a chilling tale of the behind-the-scenes gang wars that plagued “Toddlerwood” in the 1990’s heyday of tot TV.

The year is 1998. Bill Clinton is President, and he is busy redefining the meaning of the word “blowjob” to the American public. Before the year is out, he will face impeachment, and friends and neighbours around the country will embrace the new “eatin’ ain’t cheatin’” zeitgeist gripping the nation. In this tumultuous climate of consequence-free handjobs and muff-diving between coworkers and random aquaintances, a war is silently raging in the background, all but unnoticed: the gang-war to end all gang-wars.

After taking to the nation’s television screens in 1992, Barney and his Gang had become an almost overnight sensation, delighting scores of children around the nation with their goofy voices, baby talk, and heartwarming songs about love, family, and getting along. It didn’t take long until the pleasantly pudgy purple dinosaur became the go-to-guy for moms all across America that needed a spare moment or two to pay the plumber with a blowjob (Hooray Clinton Economy!) for fixing a leaky sink or snaking a turd-plugged toilet. Children would sit transfixed for hours, watching Barney and his friends do their thing, and singing along with the gang’s inane, yet values-filled simple songs. Everything was coming up roses for Barney and Friends, but a dark cloud loomed on the horizon.

Across the pond in Merry Olde Englishville, competition was brewing. The Teletubbies had been formed from a talent search that had exhaustively combed through thousands of contestants in order to put together a so-called Supergroup of toddler-pleasing talent, led by a tough-talking former East End Enforcer, T(inky) Winky. Boy-band impresario and future convict Lou Perlman was even rumoured to have been retained as a consultant in the selection process. The Teletubbies mission was clear: total and utter domination of the the toddler television market and its lucrative merchandise market. When the Teletubbies first appeared on American television screens, they were an instant success, and immediately grabbed a large audience away from the purpler, more coherent, and almost understandable Barney.

As Barney’s ratings began to drop, his behaviour, always a concern for the show’s producers, began to become more erratic and violent. He is shown here in a police mugshot taken after a routine traffic stop for a broken taillight led to a drunken melee with police officers. Barney was left bloody and bruised after a serious night-sticking and his fellow cast member Riff (known as “Spliff” to show insiders) was shot seventeen times in the incident. It is assumed the duo’s fame was responsible for the LAPD showing such restraint in the situation. It was around this period that Barney began uttering threats in the Teletubbies’ direction, both publicly and privately. In one recently released email, he is quoted as telling Teletubby leader Tinky Winky that if the Tubbies didn’t leave town, Winky would find himself “packing your own head around in that fucking man-purse you flounce around with.”

Never one to back down from a fight, hard luck London East Ender and former Yardie Tinky Winky fanned the flames of war with his own proclamation, on his best-selling rap album, “T Winky Gettin’ Kinky.” In the song “Die, You Purple Dinosaur Fuck,” Winky raps of his disdain for an unknown “Purple Dinosaur Fuck” (assumed now to be Barney) and threatens to “disembowel you with my razor sharp vowel use” before “popping a cap in yo big fuckin’ yap.” In the picture at left, taken by an unknown crew member, the Tubbies are shown in an argument with the producer of the show over demands in their contract rider. This conflict was said to have arisen over the fact that the bitches supplied to wash the Tubbies’ Hummer with their titties were “Crackers,” instead of the rider-specified “Latina Hos” and “Nubian Princesses.” This photo was the last anyone saw of the producer, however T Winky later rapped that the unfortunate fellow could be “found by the pound, all around town, nomasayin?”

In Spring of 2000, things came to a grisly head. After months of private and public mudslinging, the stage had been set for a final confrontation. Barney, always susceptible to the siren call of hard drugs, had reportedly been on a crystal meth binge for over a week, when he and his posse entered the studio where the Teletubbies filmed their show. In what was described later by the sole surviving crewman as being “like that elevator scene from The Shining,” Barney and his dinosaur friends embarked on a blood soaked killing spree that would leave everyone involved with the show in pieces of gore-soaked foam. The surviving crew member, speaking of the incident (on the condition of anonymity) told us: “What the fuck did the Tubbies expect? Did they honestly think a bunch of fat little mental patients with TV screens in their stomachs were any match for a fuckin’ T-Rex?!” The only picture from the day’s events, recovered from a screenshot of Winky’s tummy television, shows a small snapshot of the day’s carnage:

Somehow, an eye patch makes decapitation even scarier, if that’s possible.

Although the truth is now known about the fateful events of that day, an adequate explanation of the Teletubbies’ disappearance was never offered at the time. The studio head of the day, Michael Eisner, flanked by Barney at a press conference, merely announced that the Teletubbies “had probably gone home, stupid limeys.” He refused to offer further explanation at the time, but upon review of the tape of the press conference, Barney’s clap on Eisner’s shoulder and knowing nod as they leave together speaks volumes about the conspiracy of silence around the issue.

Join us next time when B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories examines the rumours surrounding Gilligan’s Island. With two hot chicks on the island, why was Gilligan always sucking up to the Captain? Perhaps he had found a taste for seamen?

You’ve sold your house! Yay!…Aw crap.

2009-07-20T01:05:00.001-07:00

Enjoy hammering this sign into the ground. It will be the last time you don’t feel homicidally angry for a long while…a real long while.

I’ve been away from the blog-lar system for the last week because I have been busy participating in that most utterly enjoyable of activities: moving out of our old house and into our new (to us) house. It took almost a year to sell our old house, and it didn’t happen a minute too soon. If I heard one more idiot present a lowball offer with some list of “reasons” why it was so low, I think I was going to fucking lose it. Why in the name of Christ would I care why they thought they should offer less than our asking price? Doesn’t the phrase “sold as is” mean anything any more? We know the driveway isn’t paved, morons, so don’t tell us that’s why you knocked five grand off the price. It wasn’t paved when we put it up for sale either, duh!

The most wonderful part of the selling, however, had to be the mad panic to make the house look like it leapt off of the pages of Better Homes and Gardens magazine for every viewing by a prospective buyer. There is nothing quite as wonderful as walking in the door at five o’clock at night, after having gotten up at three in the morning to hear “Showing tomorrow at ten, could you vacuum?” or spending your entire Sunday cleaning to pretty up the house for a showing on Monday morning. Just once, when someone came to look at the house I wanted to be sitting on the couch in my underwear in front of the TV, watching a football game, chunks of pretzels all over my belly, and a half empty beer helmet on my head, emblazoned with a “Go Raiders!” sticker on the side. I would look up when they came in, and spitting my beer straw out of my mouth, I would say: “What? This is what you’re going to be doing here once you own it!” I am sure the wife would be mortified, but the husband, he’d understand it. You goddamn right he would.

Once the sale has happened, things get nasty quick. First, it is decided by the powers that be (not you, if you are the husband) that everyone should go through everything they own and separate it into items to keep, items to donate to charity, items to throw out, and items to go into the “Going-to-pay-for-the-new–stuff-at-the-new-house-garage-sale.” ~~Garbage~~ Garage Sale. Even writing the words just now is causing me to break out into a cold sweat. What an epically colossal waste of fucking time. As it so happens, no one comes to a ~~Garbage~~ Garage Sale intending to spend over ten dollars, and they plan to leave with no less than five items for that ten dollars. They are all also hoping to one day appear on Antiques Roadshow and tell the host: “I found this at a garage sale. I bought it off the moron for like, two bucks!” And the haggling, oh the haggling. Sample exchange between a prospective customer and myself:

Customer: “This Sony Vaio laptop says two dollars on the price tag. Will you take a dollar for it?”

Me: “How about I smash the laptop over your head and pry the two dollars out of your hand to cover the damages?” and then out loud: “I have to ask my wife.”

Customer: “I changed my mind, I wasn’t planning on spending that much for a top of the line laptop.”

Me: “Fuck you.” and then out loud: “ Thank you, come again!”

That’s two Friday evenings and one Saturday morning I will never be able to get back. The very best part of the ~~Garbage~~ Garage Sale is that afterward, you get to sort all the leftovers into items to keep, items to donate to charity, and items to throw out. Good times.

Look at all the stuff! Look at all the stuff nobody wants! Hey, that’s pretty much all of it!

After crushing all of the dreams of new goodies financed by the garage sale, it’s time to pack up! If you are a woman, that means that three or four weeks before you move, ninety percent of the items in the house are boxed and ready to be moved, or have been sold. This lets the family spend it’s last weeks in the home living like European backpackers, eating dry toast and leftover condiment packages from drive-thrus and wearing the same clothes they had on when the “sold” sign went up. When the big day arrives to start moving, everyone pitches in to help, except teenagers, whose contribution seems to consist entirely of laying on the couch to make it heavier to put in the moving van, and randomly yelling: “Are we going to eat soon?” The one upside of packing all of the shit off to the new house is I now know the exact weight of every item we own: heavy. A lot of times I’m sure it pays to just hire the pros, like these guys:

They offered to move us for ten bucks and two forged Canadian passports. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to come up with the ten bucks, and I still owe my cousin for the passports. Anyone else out there named Firin’ Explosama or Farouk Al-Waxmani?

Once everything has been packed into the new house, all you have to do is unpack it and put it away, which is the easiest part by far, as long as you hide out in a seedy bar somewhere and don’t participate. Oh, and while you are unpacking, you will have to separate everything into items to keep, items to donate to charity, and items to throw away. You will also need to attend couples’ counseling for a year, or maybe even retain the services of a divorce lawyer. As far as moving’s location goes on a list of “Fun Stuff to Do,” I would rank it somewhere between jumper cable clamps on the ball sack and a Cher/Celine Dion double bill evening in Vegas. If I could give any advice about selling your house and moving it would be simple:

Torch the old place and everything in it and get new shit with the insurance money.
Have someone torch the old place and everything in it for you and get new shit with the insurance money.
Have a Bighorn Sheep repeatedly head butt you in the nuts to simulate the moving experience and get you in shape to tackle it.
Stay right where you are. Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

Fall TV Season Preview, “I Wish” Edition

2009-07-12T16:32:00.001-07:00

In Season 6 of the popular Discovery Channel reality series, “Deadliest Catch,” the hardened crews of the Cornelia Marie, Northwestern, and Time Bandit come up against their biggest challenge yet. “Deadliest Catch: Celebrity Greenhorns” finds the crews not only battling horrific conditions at sea, but having to make do with their most useless group of greenhorns to date. The celebrity greenhorns each appear in two-episode arcs; a short teaser preview of the upcoming season’s episodes is provided here:

The first celebrity greenhorn is former Governor of Alaska and Republican Presidential Campaign Cancer Sarah Palin:

“I’ve done some trollin’ and I’ve had crabs. Qualified? You Betcha!”

Episode 1: Tentatively titled “Palin Bailin’.” Ep. 1 begins with Palin getting to know the crew of the Cornelia Marie, and settling in to life as a crab fisherman. She soon finds out it is a far cry from her more familiar existence as a person who likes fishing and has crabs. Humorous moments include: a heated debate about gay marriage and gun laws with surprisingly liberal Captain Phil Harris; the crew tricks Palin into attempting to keep the water off the deck with a thimble as thirty foot seas repeatedly batter her against icy crab pots and stacks of gear; Palin catches the crew engaged in a rock-paper-scissors tournament to decide if she would be more useful as a marker float or as bait.

Episode 2: Tentatively titled “Palin Flailin’.” Ep. 2 finds the crew playing more greenhorn tricks on Palin, such as having her take a ride down in a crab pot to “see if there are any crabs around down there.” Palin also provides comic relief in a segment in which she refuses repeatedly to get into the bait mulcher despite the crew’s insistence that it is part of the greenhorn’s “job description.” Finally relenting, Palin agrees to go through the bait mulcher “If it will help out, I guess” leading to the crew enjoying their best laugh in 5 terrifying seasons at sea.

Episodes 3 and 4 find popular child stars and current Hollywood punchlines Corey Feldman and Corey Haim traveling to Dutch Harbor to take to the seas with the Northwestern, helmed by surly Scandinavy-something Sig Hansen:

“Get this straight. He’s the one with the drug problem. I’ve got the ego problem. Kapeesh?”

Episode 3: Tentatively titled “Where’s Corey?" Ep. 3 opens with the crew of the Northwestern scouring Dutch Harbor for Haim, who, it is reported by Feldman: “Said he had to go use the bathroom when we got off the plane, I haven’t seen him since.” The crew locates Haim passed out in a snowy field near a couple of huffed-out cans of Lysol, drags him to the boat and heads out to the fishing grounds. Highlights of this episode include: Haim tries to cut the worms out of his arms with a potato peeler after six drug-free hours at sea; Feldman causes a Northwestern crew member to jump into the unforgiving stormy ocean after Corey spends four hours of the trip to the fishing grounds outlining his “comeback plan” to the unfortunate fisherman.

Episode 4: Tentatively titled “Now where the fuck is Corey?” Ep. 4 begins with Northwestern Captain Sig Hansen telling Haim he will give him a “big rock” of crack if Haim gives “a round of blowjobs to the boys and one sea urchin.” After completing his challenge, Haim amuses the crew with his attempts to get a dime-sized piece of rock salt, given to him as payment by Hansen, to “cook” on the galley’s hot plate. Highlights involving Feldman include him slipping on the icy deck and breaking his nose on the steel edge of a crab pot. The crew rolls on the deck in laughter at his cries of: “My face! My beautiful face!” Even narrator Mike Rowe sounds like he's talking through a grin. The episode ends on a low note, however when Haim, butt-naked and twitching heavily, informs Hansen he needs to “Go down to the corner store to pick up some milk. I’ll be right back.”, seconds before leaping over the side. Hansen expresses regret at Haim “not doing that sooner, and taking his bum-buddy with him.” As the episode ends, Haim’s fate is unknown.

It looks like another suspenseful, exciting season of Deadliest Catch. As expected, the celebrities look like they will up the “fun quotient” a bit this season. Having these seasoned performers appear on the show is sure to delight fans of all ages with their hilarious highjinks, maiming, and comically tragic disappearances.

Having a Bad Day? It Could be a Hell of a Lot Worse…

2009-07-08T21:07:00.001-07:00

Every once in a while I start to feel a little sorry for myself. I’m sure we all do at times. Maybe you haven’t achieved the goals you set out to in life, or haven’t felt like life has been going your way recently. Hell, maybe that racketeering conviction stuck on appeal. You’re going to have to spend a little stretch in a maximum security lockdown, and you haven’t been doing nearly enough pushups to fight off your giant future cell-mate’s ass-plundering advances. You should have been in the gym, instead of listening to that two-bit shyster you hired that promised you would walk.

Obviously, we’ve all made some bad decisions that we have lived to regret in one way or another. Or are about to regret, in an excruciatingly painful, and humiliating way. Fortunately, at times like this, we can take solace in the fact that we’ve never made decisions this bad:

Marnie had always dreamed of competing in the X Games. A long time lover of extreme sports, the Nearly Nude Wooden Nipple Clamp Downhill Thong Luge had been her obsession for years. She wasn’t prepared for the size of the big blue-tipped nipple clamps used in professional competition however, and she was distracted by the how the bright red helmet she was forced to wear clashed with her pink ass cheeks and pendulous rosy boobs.

Sadly, throughout years of dedicated practice, she had also not taught herself how to stop. Shortly after this picture was taken, she speared through a portable hot dog cart at roughly sixty miles per hour. Unfortunately, the impact did not immediately take her life, and she suffered the horror of a slow death by scalding sauerkraut water. In a final indignity, she was awarded last place in the competition. As per official X Games policy, anyone dying in an event receives a last place standing, and multiple deaths result in a tie for last place. Godspeed, Marnie.

This sad fellow above, is former Klingon Army Master Corporal Robert Sliizaaqquia. He is pictured here in a polaroid shot by a New York City SWAT Team member shortly before his death in a hail of beanbags, rubber bullets, flash-bang grenades, and repeated tazer shockings. It turns out that if you use enough different non-lethal methods of force at once, they can actually be lethal in combination. It’s interesting what you find out in the field.

Anyway, back to Robert. After being dishonorably discharged from the Klingon Military for failing to maintain acceptable fitness standards, Robert had fallen into a deep depression and had become prone to spending long hours in his favourite comfortable folding chair in front of his computer, watching carp porn (it’s a Klingon thing). A friend that had left his apartment shortly before the incident above stated that Robert had been attempting to be more positive of late and had been preparing to take a picture of himself for his just-opened Lavalife profile. Robert felt that the Klingon Military Formal Dress would be most appropriate for the picture, explaining his state of attire shown above. The friend stated that Robert had expressed a desire to “Get himself back out there, and mix it up a bit.”

When the police knocked on Robert’s door (by mistake actually, they had intended to do a kick-in at the drug dealer’s apartment next door), he answered and followed the accepted Klingon practice of offering his guests a gun. A very polite, but very bad decision, indeed. His death was not in vain, however, as SWAT teams have now adopted the practice of writing down the address of a planned assault instead of someone saying “I’ll remember it.” It is truly interesting what you can learn in the field. Thank you, Robert.

It’s Canada D’eh! (Well, a d’eh late).

2009-07-02T01:25:00.001-07:00

~~It’s~~ It was our nations 142nd birthday ~~today~~ yesterday! In honour of this momentous occasion, this post will celebrate ~~all~~ a few things Canadian, and maybe even some things we wish weren’t Canadian. While we are at it, we will enjoy some pictures of the fantastic scenery to be found around this great country of ours. Then, when we are done, we will head outdoors to finish off the day celebrating Canada Day in traditional Canuck style with hot dogs, softball, poorly attended parades, and blind drunkenness. If we still have some time left over, we might even tell our loved ones what we really think of them. Fun!

First, let’s start off with some of the things that make us proud to be from the Great White North:

Cheezies. They are so good, only half the bag made the photo shoot. They also come in handy if the power goes out and you should need a candle, or a campfire. Yup, they burn that good. Real slow like.

Giant Beavers. Not to be confused with ridiculously oversized vaginas. That is a topic for a completely different but nonetheless extremely important post.

Our hard-working government employees. I took this picture of a uniformed Canadian Coast Guard Ice-Checker out my front window this morning. They even work on our nation’s birthday!

Canada is also know the world over for its stunning scenery and awe-inspiring landscapes. Some of our world famous landmarks include the Rocky Mountains, Niagara Falls, and Pamela Anderson’s magically expanding and contracting chest. Another interesting fact about Canada is that it shares the world’s longest undefended border with our friends to the south, the United States. Just in case our American neighbours should find this fact disturbing, due to fear of terrorists using Canada as a launch pad for activities in the States, there is no need to worry.

Although technically undefended, the US-Canada border is watched over by thousands of stone-faced, humourless, tight-assed border guards who are deftly skilled in the art of stupid question asking. If there is one test a terrorist fears more than any other, it is answering stupid questions. More than one suicide bomber has accidentally answered a US Border Guard’s skillfully worded question: “Y’all got a receipt for that bag of Cheezies?” with: “I come to destroy you, infidel!” resulting in their immediate arrest and deportation the sixteen feet back into Canada. Asinine questions are like Kryptonite to terrorists. If those of you reading this in the States should have any further concerns, we hope you sleep better at night knowing that Canada has recently spent literally thousands of dollars upgrading our border security measures, as shown by this photo of our new, state-of-the-art border crossing facility at Beaverlodge, Alberta:

“Did you hear a knock?” “No, I didn’t hear a knock.” “Phew! Thank goodness, eh. I heard terrorists always knock first before coming in.”

Well this has been just a short list of the things that make this great country so special and super-interesting. I feel like I would be remiss if I didn’t also pay tribute to a few famous Canadians who make their livings far from home. Although they might be feeling a little nostalgic today about their homeland, I would like to assure them on behalf of all Canadians that there is no hurry to rush back. In fact, feel free to stay right where you are. Forever if need be.

Seriously, Celine. Caesar’s will miss you if you leave. Just stay. Stay right there.

C’mon, Paul. What would Dave do if you left? I mean really, it’s not like retarded monkeys grow on trees you know. You should totally stay. Totally.

All joking aside (except for Shaffer and Celine, them I wasn’t joking about), the people we should take a moment to think about today are our men and women of the Canadian Armed Forces serving in Afghanistan. Despite what you might think about the reasons for our country going there, these people are putting their lives in harm’s way to try and help the Afghan people claim some of the freedoms that we take for granted. Showing support for the members of our armed forces is not jingoistic, misguided patriotism. It is a sign of respect for the boots on the ground, and the danger they face each day. Until Afghan girls can go to school without the fear of acid being sprayed in their face or witnessing their teacher being beheaded in the front of their classroom, these people are willing, able, and ready to help. They do so with pride and respect for the Afghan people, and return tour after tour, hoping to make a difference. Will it all work out? Who knows? I hope so. Until then, let’s take a second to remember how good we have it, and wish our forces a safe and happy homecoming, one day soon, I hope. Let’s also hope they can leave behind a safe and free Afghanistan, so their sacrifices will have been worth something.

Hang in there and be safe.

David Suzuki!? Not you, too!!

2009-06-30T20:07:00.001-07:00

In more credible times with unbelievably sweeter hair.

Earlier today while doing intense research for tomorrow’s Great Canadian 142nd Birthday Extravaganza ©, I happened to stumble upon the disturbing image below. I know. I was as devastated as you are now. Of all the people in the world that could be caught in such a compromising position, who would have expected it to be Dr. David Suzuki himself? With his long standing commitment to the environment and distinguished career as one of Canada’s preeminent scientists and teachers, we, as you had I am sure, believed he was beyond the reach of greedy multinational corporations and their suave, charismatic pitchmen. As host of the science-focused television program “The Nature of Things,” Mr. Suzuki has guided our generation to a love and respect for the wondrous natural world around us. He also taught us that things with “Big” in front of them were bad. Big Oil, Big Timber, and Big Chicken were but a few of the examples of these enemies in our midst.

In recent years Mr. Suzuki has concentrated his efforts and those of his foundation, the (in our humble opinion) oddly named David Suzuki Foundation, toward helping the public to understand their role in the emerging and scary environmental problem of Global Warming (tm). Time and again, Mr. Suzuki has spoken out about the planet-wide crisis that is possibly Global Warming (tm). He has cited examples of extreme weather events and ever-increasing planetary temperature averages as evidence of the existence of and hell-bent-for-leather path of Global Warming (tm). I don’t think I would be mistaken if I said most of us believed the words of this great man.

Until now. If a picture could say a thousand words this picture says about seventeen thousand three hundred and sixty-one, not including footnotes and photo credits. There is no mistaking what is going on here. David Suzuki has sold out to Big Cold. There could be no more damning evidence than to be caught in a public embrace with Big Cold’s nefarious pitchman, Frosty the Ridiculous and Sexually Ambiguous Quebecois Snowperson. Frosty’s ‘Joe the Camel’ like kid-friendly persona has convinced countless children that the cold is their friend. We can now see that Mr. Suzuki is none other than Frosty’s henchman-in-arms, charged with the responsibility of luring adults to the seductive power of Big Cold’s Hidden Agenda, using the ominous and vaguely defined threat of Global Warming (tm).

We believed in you Mr. Suzuki. This is truly a sad day:

“Just look straight in zee camera and smile, Suzuki. Remember, you could zell ice to an Inuit Person! Ha Ha! I make zee, how you say, in-the-side joke! I swear, I slay myself sometimes! Now, let’s get out of here and chain-smoke our way through a croissant or two.”

Michael, we hardly knew ye. Well, we wish we hardly knew ye.

2009-06-27T13:36:00.001-07:00

So much potential…so much potential. Sadly, that large thing lurking in the background of this picture is not a huge tree. It is insanity.

Is this the seventeen millionth blog posting about the death of the King of ~~Poop~~ Pop? Yes. Has everything that could be said about it already been said? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Hell, no! My three readers have probably avoided reading the other stuff until now anyway, due to their hating Ol’ Wacko Jacko. Unfortunately for them however, they are mostly family and thus feel obligated to read this particular blog posting.

With all of the focus on unpaid debts, shit-flinging life-long monkey companions, and minor annoyances like multimillion dollar hush money payments to loud mouthed children, some of the wonderful lessons Michael taught us have been lost. Since it is hard to put a more positive spin on his passing than, well, his passing, I won’t dwell on that here. I would just like to acknowledge some of the important contributions he has made to our collective general psyche over the years. Some rules-to-live-by, if you will:

White guys (or guys of any other shade, for that matter) should never put on a white glove, fedora, and jeri curl to go to a high school dance. The chances of getting laid that year will plummet considerably, as will the chances of ever getting laid in any other year in that town, or any other towns within the range of telephones, letters, or rumours. Might as well skip the reunion, too.
Moonwalking is for people who can actually moonwalk. All others should practice more, or fuck off. Consequences of non-compliance with this rule can include those outlined in item one.
Dangling infants from hotel balconies, while once a perfectly acceptable practice in some parts of the world I am sure, is not a good idea in Europe. Or anywhere else where people know how to operate cameras, think rationally, or have one single iota of common sense anywhere in their bodies.
Letting your kids sleep over at a rich guy’s house, with him, in his bed, is not quite the harmless practice leading to fame and fortune that one might think. No matter how many Llamas, roller coasters, and tight-lipped, well-paid security people the rich guy might have, improper conduct may occur. Actually, maybe we should just not let our kids sleep at any guy’s house, in his bed, ever. For any reason. Or should that be “for obvious reasons?” Simple test: Neighbour Dude: “Hey, can Johnny come over to my house tonight for a sleepover with me in my bed?” You: Option 1: “No, you fucking pedophile!”, Option 2: “Sure, just let me pack up his toothbrush and innocence. You boys have fun!” Trust me, the correct answer is Option 1. How could you have let me go, Mom and Dad?
Surprisingly, being stinking rich does not protect you from the public scorn directed at you for your stupid and psychotic actions, only the consequences of those stupid and psychotic actions. Yup, it’s true. Even after the cheques have been cashed, people might still think you are a douchebag. Sorry Mad Mel and OJ (Round 1 anyway).
Finally, Michael taught us that change is not always a good thing. If you start out life as a good lookin’, ‘fro-sporting African American dude, it is okay to end it like that, too. At no point in one’s life should one succumb to peer pressure or insurmountable insanity and spend millions morphing into a baby-powder white, tinkerbell-nosed, freakish ghoul. Even if you have the money, and that hair-straightener that got re-gifted back to you from your niece last Christmas.

It’s probably a good thing it happened when it did. Two more shades and he would have been clear. Then we would be able to see the inner workings. I picture a lot of demons with a poor little ‘fro sporting kid tied to a chair and gagged. He’s got to be in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, Michael’s death has put millions of losers worldwide into a state of misguided mourning and holocaust-denier-like vehement ignorance regarding the less savoury aspects of his life. Fortunately for me, however, I have a new potential guest for future editions of From Beyond the Grave. Once he’s done with all of the lake-of-fire stuff and has a spare moment, that is.

Blog Page Challenge, Part 1

2009-06-22T23:24:00.001-07:00

Here in good old Beaverland, home of everything that is good and right and insecure in this world, we used to have a long-running panel quiz show called Front Page Challenge. Front Page Challenge ran from 1957 to 1995 on the CBC (Canucks Broadcasting Canadians) television network. The show featured a panel of notable journalists (and the occasional celebrity), all of whom asked questions of a mystery guest in an attempt to guess their identity.

Many of us have fond childhood memories of sitting around the igloo or teepee on a frigid mid-summer night, watching Front Page Challenge while we waited for Grandma to thaw out and bake us some seal-blubber cookies. Poor Grandma, she would often get lost on the four hour return trip to the shit-hole chipped through the lake ice. We would find her frozen stiff, squatting against a tree, her knickers still at half-mast, a startled grunt etched into her face. We would dutifully carry her home and prop her up next to the pot-bellied stove, and wait. At times like these we found ourselves entranced by the flickering black and white images and lock-jawed wooden demeanors of the Front Page Challenge panelists. We all dreamed of one day making the FPC panel, or even better yet, appearing as the mysterious and mystery-ish “mystery guest.”

Sadly, in 1995, Front Page Challenge was cancelled by the CBC. An escalating series of budget cuts during previous seasons had seen all of the quiz panel replaced by wooden mannequins save for one (the change oddly going mostly unnoticed), and the mystery guest replaced by Rich Little, doing his classic brand of charmingly shitty Canadian impressions. By the fifteenth episode of the lone panelist guessing the guest’s identity as “Rich Little doing someone? Maybe a famous person?” it was obvious the show’s heyday had come to an end.

Since we are feeling nostalgic, we have decided to recreate a version of Front Page Challenge here in our very own humble little blog. We have invited a panel of today’s preeminent journalists to participate, and they will attempt to discern the identity of our mystery guest through their insightful and probing questions. Without further ado, I would like to introduce our esteemed three-person panel of respected journalists and one guest celebrity:

Our panel of journalists includes: Andy Rooney of 60 Minutes, Conservative commentator Ann Coulter, and Canadian Journalistic Icon Rex Murphy. Today’s celebrity guest panelist (and the only name celebrity drinking in Toronto this weekend that could come in) is Socio-Fashionalite and Deserving Heiress Paris Hilton.

Hint: our Mystery Guest has recently been featured in the news as both a victim and a victimizer.

Okay, panel, ask away! We’ll start with you, Ann.

“Are you a Jew, Gay, Ethnic, Homo, Liberal, Fruit, Jihad-Lover, Pansy, or Godless America-Hater?”

“ No, Yes, Sort-of, Yes, Yes, Yes, Not sure what that is, Yes, sometimes.”

Okay, thanks, Ann. Andy it’s your turn to ask our guest a question now.

“Do you have any idea why toilet paper is perforated? I’m almost dead and even I can tear toilet paper. Is the whole thing just to make the toilet paper look better? It’s for wiping up shit isn’t it? Is this what’s wrong with American productivity these days?”

“ Ummm…no. That might be why, I’m not sure. Yes, shit-wiping is it’s main function. Yes, that probably is the root of the productivity problem, I think we’re in agreement there.”

Good question, Andy! Okay, let’s hear from Canadian Journalistic Icon Rex Murphy now.

“It seems to me, and this could be completely out of left field, don’t hesitate to let me know, that when one appears as a mystery guest, and mind you, I could be missing the point here, one has implicitly agreed to be a complicit accomplice in the process of demystifying ones’ self in a most public fashion, and forgive me if I have misstated or understated the weighty gravitas of the issue in any way, and please don’t hesitate to weigh in on the issue as yourself or even, as oneself. Please, discuss, if you should be so inclined, and if I’ve neglected to cover off some of the more salient and pertinent points.”

“ Uhh..did that guy just ask a question? Are you Canadians fuckin’ retarded?”

Excellent question yourself, Mystery Guest! To answer I would have to say I’m not sure and probably! Well, so far we aren’t making much headway. Maybe quasi-celebrity guest Paris Hilton will have a little better luck. Quiz away, Paris!

“Uh, are you, like, bigger than a breadbox?”

“Did you just call me fat, bitch? Watch it, you might find yourself on the internet with “slut” or “ho” written across your picture if you don’t control that mouth of yours!”

“Hey, I think I know who you are! Did you just recently get punched right in your stupid face and make everyone laugh at a club in Toronto? And did you also just recently commit career hari-kari by trying to ask a Miss USA contestant about her thoughts on gay marriage even though people could not possibly give less of a fuck what some dipshit beauty queen thinks about anything, let alone a serious issue? Do you have the same last name as me, but without the inheritance or importanance? Are you none other than loser blogger Perez Hilton?”

“Yes, it’s me, Paris. How the hell did you figure it out? I don’t know why I agreed to be on this stupid Blog Page Challenge remake crap anyway. Twenty Canadian dollars and a blowjob from Rich Little sounded good at the time, but having to talk to you dickheads just wasn’t worth it! And just to let you know, America does care what vapid, bleach-blonde beauty queens think about important stuff, why do you think anyone even talks to you?" Oh, right, the leg-spreading. Never mind. And on another note, fuck you Canada! Don’t be surprised if you see yourself featured on my blog with white stuff dribbling down your chin, and “ho” scrawled across your picture!”

Well, that went incredibly poorly! I really didn’t expect Paris to figure out our Mystery Guest’s identity. I guess it just goes to show how these bottom-feeders can sniff each other out! Hopefully our next attempt will go a little better. Maybe we can increase our budget and afford some real panelists and guests, instead of tonight’s lineup of Hitler Youth Volunteer Troop Leader Ann Coulter, Re-animated Fossil Andy Rooney, Marble-Mouthed Nonsense Spewer and Canadian Journalistic Icon Rex Murphy, and Hollywood Pin Cushion Paris Hilton.

Until next time, remember to put another log in the stove for Grandma.

From Beyond the Grave, Part 2

2009-06-18T09:18:00.001-07:00

Today’s edition of From Beyond the Grave finds us blessed with the presence of much-loved late night talk show host Johnny Carson. In case you are wondering, yes, all dead people are named Johnny (see "From Beyond the Grave, Part 1"). During his 2000 year run on NBC as host of “The Tonight Show,” Johnny created many memorable characters, including Carnac the Magnificent, pictured above.

What the average fan is unaware of however, is that far from being a character created by a team of amphetamine addicted staff writers, Carnac was in fact created by Johnny himself. Johnny had always yearned to make his psychic powers public, but feared the backlash of his audience, composed mainly of people who were old, white, and stupid. Carnac gave Johnny a safe outlet to display his psychic prowess, and in fact the entire skit was unscripted and the envelopes contained blank pages. Johnny actually knew the answers!

Today, Johnny has graciously agreed to take a break from lounging around poolside in Heaven with former Playboy playmates who committed suicide after sleeping with Hugh Hefner in order to answer a question or two for us. We tried to pay Ed McMahon five dollars to appear as Johnny’s sidekick for old time’s sake, but he snatched it out of our hand and scootered off before we could catch him. He was last spotted scooting away from a corner store doubling a transvestite hooker and toting a large magnum of screw top wine. We certainly won't offer to pay him up front next time.

Johnny was even kind enough to appear dressed as Carnac for this interview. In fact he told us that believe it or not, even dressed like that, you can still get strange tail in Heaven. What an awesome place that must be!

RBG: Johnny, thanks for appearing here today, this is truly an honour!

Johnny: Really, RBG, it’s the least I could do. Your blog has about as many readers as my show had viewers that mattered to advertisers near the end, so glad I could help out.

RBG: Okay, Johnny, I am going to think of a question about a topic or person, and I would like you to think of an answer to that topic or question. Don’t worry about the envelopes.

Johnny: Shit, I had Jesus stop by Kinko’s to stock me up just in case, but that’s alright, he can probably use them to solicit donations or something. Well, go ahead RBG, think away!

RBG: Here goes. I am thinking of my first question. Okay. Got it.

Johnny: “Terd nuggets, best reasons to consider retroactive abortion, lowering the collective IQ of the world.”

RBG: Johnny, that’s amazing! The question I had in mind was “What do people think about the contestants on the execrable TV show ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!’?”

Johnny: Glad to see I’ve still got it. Fire away, son. Mentally, that is.

RBG: Alright, question number two. Okay, I think I’ve got it.

Johnny: “Social Services SWAT team, burning compound, hail of gunfire.”

RBG: Wow Johnny! That’s incredible! The question I had thought of was “How in the hell are Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise ever going to escape from Scientology nut and couch-jumper extraordinaire Tom Cruise?”

Johnny: Well, lad, I’ve got time for one more. I’ve got a massage booked with Dorothy Stratten at ten.

RBG: I’m thinking…okay, there it is.

Johnny: “Get married to each other in Vermont, adopt seventeen Zimbabwean children, catastrophic tabloid-fodder breakup.”

RBG: Well, that was certainly an interesting answer! Not what I expected. The question I was thinking of was “What does the future hold for the careers of Hottest Bachelor listers Chace Crawford and Zac Effron?”

Johnny: Glad I was able to clear up some of these issues for you, RBG. Well, I’d better get going, if I’m late with Dorothy, she makes me pay extra for the “happy ending.”

RBG: Thanks for stopping by, Johnny, that was certainly illuminating.

Johnny: Anytime son, the pleasure was all mine. Pizzeace out.

B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories

2009-06-14T00:05:00.001-07:00

Episode I: The Love That Dare Not Speak It’s Name

It’s three a.m. In an upstairs bedroom in a vast mansion in Lebanon, Tennessee, a phone rings on a bedside nightstand, startling awake the bed’s lone muppet-faced occupant.

Reba (sleepily): Howdy, y’all.

Kathy: Reba, it’s me.

Reba: Is this Leann Rahms agin? What now? You need another cover story about a-sleeping at mah house for the naht so yer husband don’t git suspicious?

Kathy: No, Reba. It’s Kathy.

Reba: Kathy? Kathy Griffin?

Kathy: Yes, Reba, Kathy. Kathy Griffin.

Reba: What in tarnation are you a callin’ for at this time of night. Why you even callin’ at all for that matter. I thought I told you to leave the past in the past, girl. What’s dun is dun.

Kathy: I know we agreed to go our separate ways and never speak of what happened between us, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of you once in a while.

Reba: Are you drunk? Jesus almighty girl. You got the common sense of a moonshiner with two busted taillights and an expired license plate, I swear, drunk dialin’ lahk this.

Kathy: I’m a little fucked up. I was down in the VIP at the Viper room earlier and things got a little crazy. I might have snorted a little coke out of Tara Reid’s belly button. Or Lindsay Lohan’s buttcrack, I’m not sure. It was one of those wastes of skin, anyway.

Reba: What the hell do you want, Kathy? Ah need to git up early tumorrah tah go duck huntin’ with Kelly Clarkson.

Kathy: It’s our son, I’m really worried about him.

Reba: How many tahms have ah got to tell ya, no amount of donut-bumpin’ and rug-munchin’ and clam-bakin’ can beget a child, you moron.

Kathy: Say what you will, if you must, Reba, but I know the truth. When I ran away from home and hitchhiked South, I never expected to find love. When I enrolled at the Chockie, Oklahoma, School of Secretaryin’, Makeuppin’, and Autobody Repair, and found myself rooming with you in that one room trailer-dorm, you introduced me to the charms of a true Suthern Lady. I’ll never forget catching a glimpse of us in that broken mirror above the wash basin, it looked like I was being ravaged by a huge ginger Tribble, quite a thrill for a dyed in the wool Trekkie from up North. You can’t deny that our love created this child.

Reba: No, ah can’t deny it. But Doctors and Geneticists and Grade School Textbooks can. You need tah leave that poor boy alone, he’s sufferin’ enough public ridicule as it is. Yuh probaly got knocked up on one a yer drunken escapades down at the National Guard barracks.

Kathy: That’s so not true! I know you are his Mother, and so am I! He needs our help right now. He’s on the ‘roids and he’s scaring the shit out of everyone who sees him! He looks like the evil clown from kids’ dreams that tries to butter their muffins! What happened to our little beautiful orange boy? We need to help him!

Reba: This conversation’s over. Ah’m a tahred of all a yer ridiculous claims and accusations. You need to git right with that boy and git him straightened out. Now good bye and don’t call here agin.

Kathy: No! Wait! Reba! Can’t we just put on our sun hats and little white gloves like real Suthern Ladies and trowel a little mound for old time’s sake?

Reba: Take care a yerself, Kathy. *click*

Kathy Griffin and Reba Mcentire were certainly not the first young ladies to find sapphic love their first time away from home at a Secretaryin’ and Trades College. What makes their story unique however, is Kathy’s insistence to this day that her and Reba’s penetrationless union produced a love child. Although she has not been able to produce any proof, some say their alleged son’s picture is all the proof Kathy needs:

“I already had no valid chance of needing my testicles looking like this, so why not go on the juice?”

With Reba’s hair and Kathy’s looks, Carrot Top could very well be the product of their star-crossed romance, but until all the facts are known, we here at B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories will leave the judgment up to you, Dear Reader.

PS: Although we would never support something as terrible as the Kick a Ginger fiasco in which children with red hair were kicked at school, if you should happen across one of these Gingers, please, kick them.

Cheer Up, Sunshine!

2009-06-09T23:46:00.001-07:00

“I could’ve been a contendant, but instead I got opposited by that sausage party loving homersexshul. Darn stupid-brain, you let me down. What do I need you for anyway? My boobies take me more places than you do. They should be my brain, then I could of wonned this whole Missus Unicef thing.”

Ahh, Carrie, where to begin? It seemed like you had so much potential. You had your career path laid out in front of you and your future seemed so bright. Everything was going according to your well-crafted master plan: Look good, keep mouth shut, give blowjobs to billionaires to win rigged beauty pageants, bag rich pageant sponsor as husband, have fresh rose petals sprinkled over your duvet every evening for the rest of your life. Lazy days spent in private jets and poolside as the trophy wife of a Saudi Arabian oil magnate or Texan owner of a chain of used car dealerships were almost within your grasp.

If everything went smoothly, no one would ever have to know about those silly little pictures of you with your tits hanging out of your shirt. You know, the ones that were caused by that freak gust of wind? Yes, that’s right, the ones where your top was horrifyingly, disturbingly, unexpectedly, and super-accidentally blown open in the breeze and you are gazing directly into the camera with that “Come fuck me anyone, but preferably someone with money” look on your face. Sorry. I mean that “Please rescue me Lord Jesus Almighty, My Saviour, from Beelzebub’s gusty grasp!” look on your face. Plus it could be worse, those polaroids of you in the middle of a dogpile composed of the entire UCLA Bruins football team defensive line could have popped up. That was a super windy day, everyone’s clothes got blown off, even their condoms!

Yup, everything was right on track. Until that little fella that likes fellas too much asked that stupid question about fellas who like fellas too much getting married even though it goes against all of God’s and your Dad’s commands, and is probably the chief reason Baby Jesus is even bawling in the first place. You didn’t have any choice but to answer with your heart, despite the fact that your heart’s vocabulary isn’t too hot, it’s not very intelligent, and it’s a homophobic Fundamentalist Christian dipshit. Sadly, the brain thing just wasn’t an option. You knew the talking would be the killer, but would it be too much to ask to get just one frickin’ question that required the following time worn pageant friendly answer bites: volunteering, emancipation, prestidigitation, multivariate calculus, puppies, and world peace? Well, it’s all over but the crying now. And maybe a few dozen cringe-worthy public appearances and interviews. The important thing is where do you go from here? In an effort to turn that frown upside down, we are pleased to present you with some other future career options for your consideration. After identifying your skills and abilities and particularly your fondness for opposites, we think we have found some employment choices that are a good fit for you:

Porn fluffer on the set of the new Hustler Video series Carrie CreamJeans goes Opposite.
Prop for a Gallagher comedy show.
Gas station restroom attendant.
Life Size Barbie Impersonator at openings of new Toys-R-Us locations.
High Priced Hooker catering strictly to Televangelists that like to visit the rumpus room.
Useless Douchebag

You may never get that car dealership owner but you still have a shot at servicing the mechanics on their lunch break, behind the dealership, in your minivan after you drop off the kids’ lunches at school.

Good luck to you Miss Prejean, you’ll be fine (probably, anyway).

“Is it possible for me to give this interview without talking? You could even turn on a fan if you want. Who knows what could happen with a little breeze. I’m just sayin’ is all.”

Patterdale Terrier? More Like Patterdale Terror.

2009-06-06T14:33:00.001-07:00

Hmm. You are asking yourself: What in the name of Christ is a Patterdale Terrier? Well, this is a Patterdale Terrier, named, deceivingly enough (the deceiving part will be explained later), Belle:

Belle is a Patterdale cross of some sort, we don’t really know what the cross part is, but she definitely tends to the Patterdale side of the genetic equation. She is all of twelve pounds soaking wet , and she came to us in kind of a roundabout fashion. My wife’s coworkers had brought a little puppy to town for some people, and when they showed up at the intended recipient’s door with her, the people informed them that they had changed their mind about having a puppy. The couple who were delivering her didn’t have the heart to take her to the pound, so they took her into work with them. That’s where my wife comes into the picture. She told the puppy deliverers to take the dog to our house, because I was at home and could take care of her until my wife got back from work at which time she would undertake the arduous task of finding the pup a “good home.” That afternoon, I heard a knock at the door, opened it, had a puppy, blanket, some food, and a toy put in my arms and watched my wife’s coworkers drive off. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep the tiny black ball of fur from shrieking and wiping piss and shit up off of the kitchen floor. For some reason, as we drove around town with her safely ensconced in a blanketed cardboard box, none of the friends and acquaintances we showed her to were quite good enough to have her, despite their pleadings to the contrary. Wow, I thought, my wife must want to find this puppy a really super good home!

About a week later, I had to go to a logging camp for a couple of weeks, so my wife bundled up the pup and we made the 45 minute drive to the crewboat departure point. As the boat pulled away from the dock, I looked back to see my wife standing there, holding the dog and waving goodbye. Uh Oh. On one of my phone calls home about a week into my stay I inquired about how the home search for the puppy was going. “You mean Belle?” my wife replied. Christ. It had a name. I told one of the guys I worked with about it and he said: “If it’s got a name, it’s yours now!” And it was. That was a little over two years ago now. Never, ever, let a woman find a puppy a good home. No matter how much she tries to convince you she’s trying to do the right thing, she is lying. Consider yourself forewarned.

I have never had any use for small dogs. All of the small dogs I had ever known were hairball barfing, couch-pissing, growling and snapping little pieces of shit that hated everyone but their loving owner. To my way of thinking, big dogs were the way to go. They could catch frisbees and shit, eat nighttime intruders, and provide a big enough meal for a grizzly bear to give their owners time to escape. Useful qualities, to be sure. This dog however, soon began to change my mind about small dogs. Turns out Patterdales are an English breed and they are bred as working hunting dogs, used to hunt all manner of vermin from rats to nutria (whatever the hell a nutria is, they’re a hell of a lot bigger than the dogs). They are much loved for their aggressive natures and calm family temperaments. This is no lap dog. Right from the start, she was a freakin’ psycho to rough house with. No cowering, no sniveling, no hiding under mummy’s skirt, just pure unadulterated attack. Fun stuff, to be sure. The only way I can think of to describe it would be to play volleyball with a bag of razor blades or hypodermic needles for a ball. Many punctures were commonplace, and believe me, all my fault. Her aggressive drive was so strong that if you held her down for a while in the middle of a fight, and let her go, she would do ten rounds of the perimeter of the room at friggin’ Mach 1 just to burn off the frustration of not being able to kill you. The best part was that when playtime was over, I just had to say “Be nice” and she would calm right down and roll over for a belly rub.

On April 24th of this year, our realtor had scheduled a showing for our house, so I did what I usually did for the showings, loaded Belle up in the pickup and took a drive for about three quarters of an hour. This time, I decided to go and check on the progress of the snowmelt on a logging road we wanted to start using in a few weeks. As I came to the end of the clear road and encountered the snow, I made the sensible man decision to see how far I could get through it. Fifteen feet, that’s how far. I fell through the rotten snow and got the pickup stuck right in the middle of the road. As I opened the door to survey the scene, Belle, as was her norm, jumped out to have a sniff around. Unfortunately, this time she caught a whiff of something and the run was on, straight up the road in the direction we had just come from. Repeated calls couldn’t get her to even slow down, and as she approached the crest of the hill in the distance, I finally yelled at her to stop, hard. She screeched to a halt, turned around, ran back toward me fifty feet, caught the scent again, turned around and disappeared over the crest of the hill. Now I was pissed off. I trudged up the hill, steam escaping my ears, and when I got to the top I could see about another two hundred metres down the road. No Belle. I spent four hours that afternoon, calling and looking for her, and after driving back to town and getting our German Shepherd, Keiko, to take back and help me look, another three hours that evening. That was thirty kilometers east of town, on the other side of the mighty Skeena River and four kilometres up a logging road…not good. Over the next weeks we made many, many trips to the spot and spent dozens of hours looking but unfortunately, to no avail. In that split second I had lost sight of her, a predator had obviously snatched her. Needless to say, the whole family was a little upset, and I felt very guilty about it.

We posted notices around town offering a reward, in case she had made it out to the highway and been picked up, but after a few phone calls that didn’t turn out to be her, we had to start to acknowledge the reality of what was going on. When the phone rang at 10:30 in the evening on Wednesday, May 27th, my wife could be forgiven for being a little irritated. She did have to work at six the next morning and she was already in bed. Wondering who the hell could be calling from a pay phone at that time of night, she was surprised to hear the voice on the other end of the line ask if we had lost a dog recently. Yes, she said. Was it’s name Belle?, the voice asked. How do you know that? she asked. I got her name and phone number off her little red tag, the man’s voice answered. No shit. Are you freaking kidding me? She came running downstairs yelling, “Brent, someone found Belle!" We jumped in our vehicle and went to the gas station the men were parked at, and when we pulled up and they opened the door, there she was. Well, what was left of her anyway. The last time we had seen her, she was about twelve pounds, and now she was a little over seven. You could feel every bone in her body, and she was very weak. The men were a pair of hunters out on their ATVs and they had found her trotting down the road near where we had lost her, passing porcupines and bears like it was no big deal. She had been there in the bush the whole time. Thirty-four days. Our version of the wild forest is pretty serious stuff, too. As far as predators go, there are wolves, black bears, grizzly bears, wolverines, coyotes, foxes, lynx, cougars, and let’s not forget the air force, the bald and golden eagles, hawks, and falcons. All of them wouldn’t be scared to take advantage of the opportunity to grab a rabbit-sized animal like Belle. There was even still snow on the ground in parts of the timber. The hunters seemed pretty happy with the two hundred dollars they didn’t know they had coming, as they’d had no idea about the reward.

So she’s back home, and getting fattened up again, and slowly but surely her personality is making a comeback. She was pretty timid when she got home, much as anyone would be, I expect, if they had just been dumped off in the wild unexpectedly, and for over a month. My wife never gave up hope of finding her, although I had thought she was gone immediately. With a name like Belle, you wouldn’t expect her to be able to survive the gamut of teeth and claws listed off in the previous paragraph. That’s the deceiving part.

That is one tough little dog.

Heroes of Yore, Part I: Thanks, Lloyd.

2009-06-04T23:05:00.001-07:00

If you’re wondering who in the hell that is in the picture on the left, then you probably won’t find the rest of this post particularly interesting. If you do know who that is, however, and what he is doing in that picture, then you recognize him as the last (and best) hero of his generation. If icons could have icons, Lloyd’s boombox blaring Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” would fit the bill to a t.

The generation I am speaking of, of course, is none other than those of us who had the misfortune of living through the 1980’s as teenagers. Although we didn’t know it at the time, the misfortune would come to roost later, as we cringed looking through photo albums filled with mullets, sleeveless flag t-shirts, white linen suits paired with a robin’s egg blue shirt (sleeves pushed up of course, thanks Crockett and Tubbs!), and parties where people actually seem to be enjoying themselves listening to Wham! That’s just one of my photo albums. I imagine everyone my age has one hidden away somewhere. Unfortunately, our kids will never look at our old pictures and say “Wow. My dad and/or mom was really cool when they were my age!” They’re more likely to say “Holy ferret attack! What the hell is that on your goddamn head?” meaning your hair, or “Flaming Shitmissiles! Is this picture from some sort of Mock U.N. school thing or something?” when seeing your sleeveless Union Jack or Rising Sun t-shirts. After we survived all the spandex, neon, hairspray, self absorption and (shudder) Kajagoogoo, Lloyd arrived on the scene to usher in a new era for our generation, The Next Step.

Lloyd Dobler lived with his older sister, was a slob, was too smart for his own good, and really only had two ambitions in life: to become a professional kickboxer, and more importantly, to woo and romance the untouchable, brainy, and beautiful Diane Court. He was graduating High School and getting ready to head out into the world, much like we were or recently had, and he was just a regular guy. Not sure what he was going to do with his future, he knew he didn’t want to buy or sell anything, or process anything bought or sold, or repair anything bought, processed, or sold. So mostly he was just going to focus on kickboxing.

Kickboxing! I think we all had our own little kickboxing dream we were nurturing, just turning the corner to responsibility and adulthood. My own dream was to draw, or write, or draw and write, or just get lost in a lifetime of the appreciation and love of words as an English professor. As far as the English professor thing goes, I was a little naive about the alcoholic, co-ed womanizing job requirements. I know all about it now though, I’ve seen movies! Mostly, however, like Lloyd, I just sat around drinking beer with my buddies. Lloyd said the things we always wanted to say, but never had the balls to; when Diane tells him they can only be friends he replies “Sure. Friends… with potential.” I bet we all had one of those heart-breaking conversations back in the puppy-love days, but I don’t imagine many of us had the guts to add “with potential.” Lloyd didn’t let things like socioeconomic status, school stereotypes, or common sense get in the way of his goals, and in a way his attitude put the perfect cap on the almost-over 80’s and their self-indulgent shallowness. Lloyd might not have fit the mold of a wall-streeter’s go-getter, but he knew what he wanted and he was damn well going to get it. He was “Looking for a ‘Dare to be great’ situation.” and in a way, we all were too.

The great thing about this movie, and Lloyd, is that the story and his character still hold up today, and sorry to say, Zac Exxon and Shia Ladouche, you’re no Cusacks. I must have watched this movie twenty times, and I still get a kick out of it. So do yourself a favour, buy a case of beer, rent this movie, and take a little step back to when you were looking for a “Dare to be great” situation. Yes, I said beer. You weren’t drinking goddamn Merlot at the parties back in the day, so if you want a true state-dependent memory thing going on, pool your allowances and get your friend’s older brother to drive his shitty old El Camino down to the Quik-E-Mart to buy you a case of the cheap stuff. Knock back a few, and remember when the world was wide open and waiting for you, long before you got swallowed up and spat out by it.

Bonus points go to any commenter that can stump me with a super-frickin’ awesome quote from the flick that I am unable to attribute to the proper character.

Lloyd, you truly are the man.

Emerging Disease Trend Heads-Up Update Journal Review Flyer, May 2009

2009-05-25T02:19:00.001-07:00

With the current worldwide panic surrounding the recent outbreak of Swine Flu (Lickapigellosis), and in recent years, the similar outbreak of Bird Flu (Chickenfuckanasia), it is now more important than ever that information about new and emerging illnesses be delivered in a timely fashion to the general public.

We here at the Centers for Disease Identification, Control, and Killing (C.-D.I.C.K.) have recently identified three other animal- related illnesses that also pose a very real threat to public health and safety. These emerging diseases and a brief outline of their pertinent facts are outlined below:

COYOTE FLU

“A two at ten…”

Proper Medical Name: Ithinkididadudeohshititis

Type of Disorder: Panic Disorder

Method of Transmission: Surprise discovery of salami under carrier’s skirt.

Signs/Symptoms: Sudden uncontrollable urges to lie to friends and coworkers about your whereabouts after the bar closed on Friday; chewed off arm stumps; obsessive-compulsive searching of bedroom to find and destroy evidence of an apparent transgender tryst; urges to clean tongue with steel wool and Drano; a new appreciation for the movie Hairspray.

How to Avoid Exposure: Never, ever, ever, drink that much fucking Tequila again. I mean it. Never.

SEAL CUB FLU

“Hey guys, you missed me! Unless I’m already in Heaven and this is just a dream. Oh, well, either way, thanks!”

Proper Medical Name: Whatthefuckhaveidoneosis

Type of Disorder: Psychiatric bitterness and shame related condition.

Method of Transmission: Vibrations travel up the club from the seal cub’s head and into the emotional reasoning center of the clubber’s brain, the amygdala, causing permanent emotional scarring.

Signs/Symptoms: Difficult time finishing a celebratory on-floe Moosehead beer without weeping; recurrent nightmares involving a larger being repeatedly smashing you in the head with a billy club; hallucinations which make it impossible to remove “blood” from your hands; difficulty rationalizing a measly paycheque from slaughter as being worth it to make pot holders and tea cozies for rich European pricks.

How to Avoid Exposure: Listen to conscience; stay on unemployment insurance; go to school and get trained for non wanton-violence related job.

REALLY GODDAMN MAD COW DISEASE

“You want a piece of me? YOU want a piece of ME? Fine. Is sirloin tip alright?”

Proper Medical Name: Bovine Ensnuffaluffagus

Type of Disorder: Tourette’s-like language restraint disorder.

Pathogenesis: The consumption of an inordinate amount of McDonald’s cheeseburgers while surfing the net leads to an atrophy of the brain’s “How important am I?” reasoning center, causing delusions of grandeur.

Signs/Symptoms: May start a blog dedicated to ranting and raving about sweet piss all; sufferers prone to using internet as podium to complain and moan about things nobody cares about; unable to avoid condescending social commentary and/or lame attempts at humor; may start to masturbate to old Clara Peller “Where’s the Beef?” ads on YouTube when nothing else will work.

How to Avoid Exposure: Stay away from internet blogging; eat a balanced diet; get outside for exercise; stay away from the McDonald’s drive-thru.*

*It should be noted that to date, no sufferer of this disorder has been able to comply with reduced-exposure guidelines. After some mildly scary lobbying efforts on the part of Big Beef, C.-D.I.C.K. hereby rescinds the above guidelines, and suggests they be replaced with “Tell them to eat a shitload of McDonald’s cheeseburgers or we’ll kill you and your family.”

It is hoped that through these early warning updates, the public will be able to take the steps necessary to protect themselves against contracting these new illnesses. It should also be noted that the usual steps to avoid the contracting of Swine and Bird Flu still apply. Wherever reasonably possible try to avoid, or at least reduce, the amount of pig-humping and chicken jerking-off you would normally participate in and you should be safe.

And remember: If you are sick and need help, C.-D.I.C.K.

“Hey Pig, what kind of Armageddon-quality Flu do you think we could unleash on the world if we were to lie down Biblically with each other?” “I don’t know Bird, but I’m down with a little poontanglia right about now, nomasayin?”

God Damned Crabby Old Farts Pissing and Moaning About Shit Piss Me Off To No End!

2009-05-20T02:12:00.001-07:00

Most recent polaroid of Mr. Mills, circa approximately 1973

An open rebuttal to Mr. Donald Mills, Esquire (crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com), in defense of young people:

The problem with old people today is they somehow gained access to the internet and can now spend their time pissing and moaning about shit in a public forum.

In the not too distant past, old people had the decency to leave the pissing and moaning about shit on the internet to the young people. The young people, fairly if you ask me, let the old people take care of the tasks they were best suited for, like trying to survive with Salisbury steak tastes on a cat-food level pension budget, and breathing in a laboured fashion. Old people were also allowed to have all of the spots available in old folks homes, even though it was a flagrant violation of equal access provisions in our country’s laws. I love Pablum! You don’t think I might like to live somewhere I could have it intravenously 3 meals a day, 365 days a year? That’s one exclusive country club, my friend.

Even though I could not actually describe myself as young, with the current pace of advancements in life-prolonging medical technologies, I may never even be able to catch middle age. How long is it until you and your Ovaltine Mafia ilk come after me as well? What’s next on your hate-filled agenda: “God Damned Middle Agers Having a Longer Lifespan Than Me Wrinkles My Knickers!” or “God Damned Formerly Young People Who Are Now Middle Aged And Run My Entire World Really Put The Frost On My Lily White Scrotum Hairs!”?

Do you ever even think about how tough it is for young people in today’s world? Sure, you may have stormed the beaches at Normandy, but after the landing, you probably still had six or seven buddies left from your platoon to help you go the rest of the way. Do you have any idea what it’s like to play World of Warcraft for thirty-six hours straight against a hundred thousand online opponents all by yourself? Now try to imagine it when you’ve run out of Red Bull, your mom is banging on your door telling you to go to school, you’re getting a cramp in your thumb, and you haven’t pissed in 12 hours. Seeing some similarities in the generational hardships?

Maybe it’s time to build a bridge between the generations, Donald. If you showed a little understanding, maybe the young people could learn to respect you in return. Let’s face it, all they have to do is unplug the wireless router and you’d be screwed anyway, trying to push the Ethernet plug into the ground receptacle of a wall outlet.

The problem with old people today is we let them gain access to the internet and talk shit instead of keeping them on islands with coconut phones and no power.

Sincerely, RBG

A Short Guide to Social Networking

2009-05-19T01:04:00.001-07:00

Having a tough time deciding which social networking site to call home? Scared you might be the last one MyBooking when everyone else is FaceTwitting? In order to help sort through the choices available I have compiled the following short guide to each of the Big Three social networking sites, Facebook, MySpace, and Twitterer..er.

Perfect For: People with a small number of irritating family members; people with ridiculously shitty typing skills and even worse vocabularies; people who think swearwords look like this: c**ks***er; people who are “fans” of stuff; people who want to randomly be accosted by forgotten past acquaintances with messages like “Wassup?” Yes, written just like that. Christ!

Not So Good For: People who can capitalize; people who don’t care one lickety-shit if anyone knows what they are doing right now (Brent is: taking a poopie! And picking a scab! At the same time! For Rizzeal!”); people who don't like lots and lots and lots and lots of stupid goddamn quizzes. Sample: “Jolene took the ‘How often do you douche?’ quiz and scored 16,562,732 points! Take the quiz now!” No. I don’t douche. I am not, however, above assisting someone else in that regard. And women say chivalry is dead!

Perfect For: All the dipshits that haven’t noticed everyone is on Facebook now; people who enjoy soul-sucking somber mood music and the colour black; people who are determined to ride out this Facebook fad; people who put a lot of work into their MySpace page and are just really hoping their friends come back from…Facebook.

Not So Good For: Illiterate doorknobs, some people on MySpace still have standards; people under 16 who don’t know what the fuck it is or even care; the last few lonely folks floating around in MySpace…Space…Space…Space. The echo effect was actually me. I’m too broke to afford expensive sound mixing equipment.

Perfect For: People with no attention span; people who can’t form complete paragraphs; people that don’t only dislike grammar and spelling, but also dislike punctuation and meaning as well; people who like to not work while at work; the over a million(!) fucking losers that care what Gimme More and Assface Klootcher are twitterering about. Sample: “Love You, Ass!” “Love You, Gimme!” “Hey, Ass, let’s have the grossest old-young sex ever!” “Okay, Gimme, just let me slip myself a little roofie first to help get me through it!” Barf!

Not So Good For: People with attention spans; people without opposable thumbs and no mouth-stick for their Blackberry; people who don’t think texting needed a next level; your boss’s bottom line; people who think referring to a comment as a “Tweet” in actual conversation is about as appealing as removing their own eyeballs with a homemade Grade 11 Metal Shop Project Melon Baller. Jesus, the burrs!!

As you can see, there are many considerations when choosing your preferred platform for internet social networking. The important thing however, is that you pick the one that works for you. Climb up high on that sucker and shout out to the world: “Finally! I officially have no fucking life!” before stage-diving into the the multitudes of your new compatriots gathered below,their outstretched arms waiting to welcome you into their pasty-faced ranks.

Seniors Travel Advisory Part 1

2009-05-14T00:20:00.001-07:00

It’s the Big Day! You and your spouse have worked for this moment your whole lives, and retirement is finally here. Now that you are cashing those sweet government cheques, the two of you can relax and pursue some of your long put-off passions. Hobbies such as trying to remember grandkid’s names, blue-plate special bargain-hunting, and attaining that PhD in crotchetiness you always talked about getting are no longer beyond your reach. You might even be able to go after the huckleberry of all retirement dreams: seniors’ bus tours to exotic destinations!

Unfortunately, due to the current economic downturn, many retirees no longer have the net worth they had hoped would carry them through these golden years. As such, many pensioners have been forced to abandon the long-held seniors practice of arranging travel through a travel agent, whom they could speak to directly by simply punching the extra-large numbers on their home telephone. Today, many not-so-computer-savvy oldsters have decided it is more economical to book their own travel on internet travel websites like Expedia.com. This practice is fraught with danger, however, and we here at Seniors Travel Advisory have learned that the culprit is in fact the drop down search suggestion menu. We have learned of many tragic cases of well-meaning sight-impaired multigenarians accidentally selecting the wrong destination for their trip, with sometimes disastrous consequences. Over the next few weeks, we hope to shed light on some all too common mistakes made by these “accidental tourists.”

Today’s Example:

Couple A decides to take a long overdue seniors bus tour of North Carolina. They have always wanted to see the beautiful beaches, mountains, historical architecture, and golf courses of this picturesque state whizzing by their window at 60 miles per hour, and by golly, now is the time. In their haste to select from the search suggestion drop down menu, however, a critical mistake is made. Perhaps reading glasses had not recently been upgraded or maybe a whole Mai Tai had been consumed at lunch four hours earlier, we will never know. Sadly, instead of North Carolina, these unfortunate folks mistakenly selected a bus tour of North Korea! They have not been heard from to this day. In order to prevent this very tragedy from ever again occurring in the future, we here at S.T.A. believe that education is the key. Before booking a tour of North Carolina look for the following red flags in the trip itinerary:

Under “Gratuities”:

North Carolina: A 15% gratuity may be added to your meal purchases.

North Korea: Your credit card may be maxed out to purchase black market oil. *RED FLAG*

Under “Things To Do”:

North Carolina: Scooter along beaches, scooter around towns, scooter through the Appalachians.

North Korea: Forced manual labour, body parts harvestee, torture practice dummy. *RED FLAG*

Under “Accommodation”:

North Carolina: Any roadside motel containing a Denny’s.

North Korea: Prison, Work Camp, Unmarked Grave. *RED FLAG*

Under “Departure Time”:

North Carolina: Meet at the West 6th Avenue Denny’s at noon.

North Korea: Meet at the Los Angeles Port Authority Ship Loading Facility, Container 54675, at dusk. *RED FLAG*

We hope this has been as educational for you long-in-the-toothers as it has been satisfying for us to help out. Stay tuned for future Seniors Travel Advisory announcements and remember:

GOOD:

NOT SO GOOD:

Aging Gracefully or Alien Invasion?

2009-05-12T11:25:00.001-07:00

I’ve been noticing lately that some celebrities just seem to be looking better and better as they age. Although I am not much of a conspiracy buff, an article I read recently indicated that some Hollywood personalities appeared to be looking better than they should at their age, even given their clean living pasts and healthy lifestyles. This same article hinted that even greater forces may be at work in these people’s discovered-the-fountain-of-youth appearances. I will attempt to present the issue from both sides, you be the judge:

Aging Gracefully?: Michael does look after his health by bleaching his skin to kill nasty aging bacteria, has never seen the sun, and keeps young by surrounding himself closely with prepubescent snuggling companions.

Alien Invasion?: He has somehow metamorphosed himself from an African-American kid into a bone-white adult and he does not appear to have a normal human attitude toward the number of other people’s kids that should sleep in his bed with him.

Aging Gracefully?: Mickey has kept his blood alcohol level high enough throughout his life to delay the effects of aging. He has also been very sparing with plastic surgery procedures, choosing instead to let his natural beauty shine through.

Alien Invasion?: He now has to drink through a sippy-cup (aliens apparently prefer this), and he seems to constantly wear the benevolent surprised grin of the world destroying Methulon people.

Aging Gracefully?: Joan Rivers’ acid containing blood and venomous tongue have helped to preserve her youthful beauty as well as keeping aging at bay through, well, fear.

Alien Invasion?: Leaked reports from the set of the Celebrity Apprentice set claim the sound of electric motors and servos could be heard whenever Joan moved. Also, in this picture she is 263 years old.

Obviously a good case can be made for both explanations. On one hand, these celebs’ timeless beauty could be the result of good clean living and a few insignificant and judiciously applied cosmetic procedures. On the other hand, their bodies could be inhabited by amorphous alien beings composed entirely of collagen, ass fat, and stitches. One last piece of evidence may influence your decision about an alien invasion however*:

Might be Niles from “Frasier.” Or not.

*Note: Picture will have greater effect if Close Encounters of the Third Kind theme music is playing in background when viewing.

Posting is so last week. Let’s get commenting!

2009-05-12T10:24:00.001-07:00

In the overwhelmingly massive world of blogs, it seems that posting often is widely viewed as the most important aspect of increasing and/or maintaining readership. I would imagine that in today’s world of distractions, keeping the interest level up is no easy feat, given the wondrous assortment of mind numbing, easily-accessed crap out there. If I want, I can get all of the useless information I need in nice, crack-sized bites of flashing light and breathless commentary on shows like Entertainment Tonight (which has almost surpassed crack to become the crystal meth of reporting), or through a few quick clicks of the mouse around Google News. It’s also tough to compete with the written word against the oh, probably six million videos on YouTube of some dude getting hit in the genitals with some type of ball/hockey stick/golf club/bat/car/apartment building, or fuzzy domestic animal. I mean, honestly, that’s usually where I end up when I should be posting. So why the hell would anyone be interested in checking out our mind numbingly easily-accessed crap? Turns out, they’re not! Pretty much nobody comes back, and these things are basically like sending out a seasonal form letter to family members, the exception being that those usually aren’t insecurity-driven.

It just so happens that all the real action is happening in the comments section! Why do all the freakin’ work of posting something when commenting on other’s work is infinitely more life affirming? It is also easier, more fun, and a lot less soul-baring. Commenting comes in nice, easily digestible chunks, and you always finish with that George Costanza “You’ve been great! I’m outta here!” leave-on-a-high-note feeling. A commenter isn’t expected to maintain interest much past a Twitter-like sentence or two, which is perfect for me. I like to serve up my smarmalade covered chunks of wisdom toast in quick bites, which seems odd considering I am the universally acknowledged master of the run on sentence. With commenting, you are also playing to a built-in audience, that being the ~~six four~~ one to two other bloggers that read your blog and bother to leave a comment. In this way, you get to feel like a part of something. As an example, I commented on a post from one of the blogs in my Blog List one time. In their response they called me “Random Commenter Guy” instead of my screen name in my comment (RBG). Now if getting your own nickname right off the bat isn’t special, I don’t know what is! I could definitely feel the love. It’s a real family environment around here, very similar to an Amish community just off the side of the highway that no one has any idea is even there.

Well, better get going. I see some new posts have popped up in my Blog List, and they’re probably dying to know what I think. I can always post tomorrow, right?

From Beyond the Grave, Part 1

2009-05-08T13:53:00.001-07:00

"Livin'..er, existin' large up here, folks!"

In today’s installment of From Beyond the Grave we are pleased to have famed defense attorney Johnnie Cochran as our guest to weigh in with his opinions on some current events. Johnnie is perhaps best known the world over for defending OJ Simpson in the “Trial of the Century.” There are some lesser known facts about Johnnie however, including that he was bustin’ courtroom rhymes MC style while ICEs Cube and T were still shitting in their bloomers. He also possessed the uncanny telekinetic power to shrink leather material, a rarely needed skill, but oh so important in the right situation. Let’s see what Johnnie thinks about some of today’s water cooler conversation topics:

Headline Says:

“Devout Catholic” and Father of Seven Children Mel Gibson Gets Divorced, Takes up With Daughter-Aged Russian Pop-Star Wannabe”

Johnnie Says:

“ While Mel and I do share some views regarding the LAPD, I disagree with his calling the female officer from his DUI arrest, “Sugar Tits.” I personally saw nothing sweet about those titties whatsoever. Although not a favourite of the Jewish community, Mel has done a good job of representing “Devout Catholics” and Drunken Mid-Life Crisis Foreign Pop-Star Bangers, so he deserves some credit for that. Had I not shuffled off of the mortal coil, so to speak, I would have been happy to represent him in both his current and all numerous future journeys through the legal system. My verdict? At the risk of sounding salacious, the man’s behaviour is disgracious, but the girlfriend is boooodacious!”

Headline Says:

“Barack Obama Elected First African-American President, America Gives Dubya the Finger on the Way Out”

Johnnie Says:

“I never thought I would live to see the day when we would finally have an African-American President, and come to think of it, I didn’t. I never had much use for that cracker fella Bush. He just seemed too into convicting murderers for my liking. If I could have still been there, I would have loved to have been a part of President Obama’s inner circle. God knows with that Bill Clinton lurking around there, they’re going to need someone like me on the payroll. My verdict? Illuminating, rejuvenating, downright Martin Luther Kinginating.”

Headline Says:

“Former Child Star and Current Hollywood Party Dishrag Lindsay Lohan Drinking Again, Tinseltown Reels in Surprise”

Johnnie Says:

“Now I wish people wouldn’t be so hard on this poor girl. She is certainly not the first Hollywood personality to fail at rehab, in fact, no one there has ever succeeded at it. Without Lindsay and all of her upper class, drunk driving, neighbourhood wannabe celebrity brethren, half the legal industry in Los Angeles might as well pack up and go home. So thank God for her and her ilk, don’t you ever change girl. My verdict? Lindsay reminds me a bit of Chicken McNuggets. The ingredients may be a little suspicious, but if you’re drunk enough, mmm…delicious.

Have a little sympathy, people.

2009-05-04T02:35:00.001-07:00

These days it just seems like everyone is sitting around complaining about everything. “My job sucks!” “My life sucks!” “Why can’t I have an awesome, worry free existence like some rich and famous celebrity?” Well, it is a little known fact that many celebrities have overcome their own share of adversity to get where they are today. Perhaps a few heartwarming examples will help to turn that frown upside down:

Britney Spears

Now I know what you’re thinking: Britney? She’s got it made in the shade, friend. Why she had a great upbringing from caring, non-career driven parents that are still helping her out for a salary, she’s blessed with excellent judgment, and she’s the only person in North America allowed to drive with her kids on her lap instead of in a child car seat!

All of these are very valid points, I agree, and they do make her life look pretty awesome. Did you know however that she suffers from a rare congenital disorder called Absentomoralgia? This tragic disorder affects two out of every 300 million Americans, Lindsay Lohan being its other unfortunate victim. This terrible disease causes its sufferers to not realize their koochie is peeking out from under their dress in public and they will go about their business obliviously, despite repeated popping flashbulbs and warnings from their handlers. Her life doesn’t seem so great now does it?

Matthew McConaughey

The next in our list of Hollywood rare condition sufferers is Matthew McConaughey. On the surface this pot smokin’, bongo thumpin’, good ol’ boy seems to have it all: the lust of millions of women, his pick of super duper romantic comedy roles, and a number of abs that exceeds the North American male average of one. Due to his gleaming man tan, George Hamilton is also reported to have put out a hit on him, the highest form of tan respect.

Unfortunately for Matty (can I call you Matty? Thanks), during his delivery by caesarean section, doctors accidentally severed any and all discernible talent from his tiny body. Normally this would not necessarily affect a person’s quality of life (think Paula Abdul), but he was also born with the congenital disease Smugnalia. This devastating condition causes its victims to deliver their lines through a shit eating grin that makes a person want to punch them right in the face. Is your life starting to look better yet?

Kelsey Grammer

Our last poor unfortunate soul for your consideration is Kelsey Grammer. This well known comedic actor went from a supporting role in the much loved sitcom Cheers to his own show named, appropriately enough, Frasier, after his Cheers character Dr. Frasier Crane. Not only has he been blessed with roles in one good TV show, and one almost-Must-See-TV show, he was lucky enough to land a role in a recent putrid attempt at a comeback (good try fella!).

Its not all wine and roses in Kelsey’s life however. When he was a small child he visited a neigbourhood corner store with his mother. Unbeknownst to young Kelsey, his mother was filling her pockets with cigarettes and bags of pork rinds as they wandered around the little shop. When she attempted to put a 40 ounce bottle of Colt 45 Malt Liquor under her shirt, the old Gypsy shopkeeper saw Kelsey’s mom out of the corner of her eye and chased them out into the street, screaming a somewhat specific curse after them:

“Your son will forever be cursed to star in roles as a pompous jerkoff in second-rate sitcoms that are much beloved by faux intellectuals because they are “smarter” than other shows! Oh, and he will grow up to have a forehead with the same approximate square footage as the flight deck of the USS Nimitz, and a hairline that looks like it was created by a jet engine test in a wind tunnel! And on another note, he will play the only character in the history of the X-Men movies that fans hoped would die immediately after he said his first line!!!”

Sadly, every single part of the curse came true.

As you can see, folks, some rich and famous people have their problems to deal with too, and on some levels they are just like us. Instead of lumping everyone in together with our scorn lets save it up for those who really deserve it:

Easy to hate.

Almost too friggin’ easy to hate.

100 days, the diary update.

2009-05-01T00:20:00.001-07:00

Dear Diary,

I’m sorry it has been so long since we talked, but a lot has been happening! I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m the President of the United States of America now! For real!

“Gosh, look at all the nice people, Golly, this is fun!”

I’ve really met a lot of nice and interesting people along the way, and I think I’ve made a new friend or two as well!

“Could you please step back? You smell like Metamucil and Absorbine Jr. I just really need you to step back right now.”

Since Washington is such a big ol’ scary place, I’m gonna need some help to get everything figured out around there. So I decided to bring along a couple of old, rich, non-threatening white people with me to show me the ropes. They’ve only been there, like, forever!

“This one’s for you racist dicks down there in Dixie…

….and this one’s for you uptight Real Housewives of New York City douchebags.”

Swearing in was way easier than I thought it would be!

“Repeat after me: ‘High Five!’” “No! Like Borat! ‘Hiiggh Fiiive’!'”

Then I got some bad news. My other good non-threatening rich white BFF Ben Bernanke came and told me that these two fellas had been cornholing each other for years! Everybody knew about it and no one did anything to stop it, he said! They were all too busy packing their golden parachutes, he said!

“You are lookin’ good! " “No. You. YOU are lookin’ good”

"Those suspenders…my stars!”

Then my good non-threatening BFF Ben told me the worst news of all! These two had an illegitimate bastard lovechild! And I have to raise it! And it’s not even cute! What kind of a name is “Recession” anyway?!!

“Can anyone ever truly love me for who I am, not who they want me to be?”

I’m beginning to get a little scared. I mean, OMG, I’ve never raised an economy-sucking black hole of a bastard lovechild before! I don’t even know if I’ll be any good at it! I’m a little worried, that’s for sure. Oh, well, talk to you soon.

Love, Barack

“What in the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

Damien! How's it hangin'?

2009-04-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

In happier times, on a Sunday ride with Mummy and StepDaddy.

I've been wondering all these years what that demonic little bastard Damien has been up to. I'm sure he must have gotten tired of all that Nanny recycling and Priest skewering at some point. I never really bought that bullshit that went down in Final Conflict, I knew he would find a way out of it somehow. Turns out, he did!

"I'm coming for you, God."

As it happens, he is now the leader of the sleepy little nation of Canada. I guess a little name change and a sneak across a terrorist-sieve border are no big deal for the Anti-Christ. I really should have noticed earlier, the dead eyes and love of scorched-earth policies were a dead giveaway. He picked a great place to launch Armageddon from, no one will see it coming. Hell, does anyone even know we are here? At least Canadians will be happy that the world finally noticed us. Well, good luck to you, "Mr. Harper!" Please don't kill me.

Celine and her Dad show how it's done.

2009-04-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

In this crazy world of runnin' off to get hitched in some Moonie ceremony at the same time as ten thousand other people, and waking up in a fleabag motel room with an overdosed hooker wearing a matching ring, it's nice to think of the simpler times like those pictured above.

Back in the day, Celine Dion's Dad made the arduous wagon train trip from her hometown of Fontaine-du-Merde-de-la-Mer, just so he could be there to hold her hand and walk her down the aisle. I wonder who the lucky fellow was that Papa was about to deliver his baby girl to?

Wait, what did you just say? You're kidding, right!? The guy in the picture is the husband!?

That is sooo fuckin' gross.

Anger: It's all upside.

2009-04-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I made a trip to what passes for our local auto parts and repair emporium to enquire as to whether some parts we had ordered recently had "made the scene" so to speak. When I strode up to the counter (that's right, strode), I was pleased to see only one other customer in front of me and two people situated behind the counter, strumming the keys on their computer terminals. Not wanting to assume my own importance, I took a position just askance of the fellow already being helped, in order to give the unoccupied customer service representative the chance to wave me in when he was ready. After oh, several minutes of standing there waiting for my turn to be served, the fellow looked up from his screen with an irritated glare and said: "Whatcha lookin' for?" Hmmm. Well. I adjusted my monocle, gave a quick flick of the brim of my top hat, hooked my thumbs in the sides of my waistcoat, cleared my throat and said: "A little bit of fucking friendly customer service my good fellow, but it looks like I'm shit out of luck here, you ignorant turd!" Then out loud and back in reality, I muttered something to the effect of "I am just here to check on the parts I came here to check on yesterday that you told me might be in today" or some other rambling, inane response. After exchanging the least possible amount of words with the twit necessary to extract my required information, I turned and left, gritting my teeth all the way out the door. I spent the rest of the day with a serious case of l'esprit d'escalier.

Now that I have had time to think some more about this silly little incident, the thing that keeps popping up to me is my own anger about the whole thing. Really, does it make sense for me to get homicidally angry over some guy's offensive service mannerisms? And could I be part of the problem? Thanks, I didn't think it was me. As usual all this thinking got me to well, thinking about anger in general and its place in our society. I did a little bit of studying on emotions in a Psyc course and I learned some interesting facts about anger in our culture. It will come as no surprise to most people that studies done on the subject have shown that North American men and women express their emotions in several different ways, often depending on the situation and their perceived roles. Generally, North American women are more emotionally expressive, both verbally and nonverbally. On average, North American women smile more than men, tend to touch others more, and use more expressive facial expressions and body language. It has been shown that women discuss their feelings and emotions more easily than men and are more willing to acknowledge that they are vulnerable at times. In essence, women do the vast majority of the emotional heavy lifting in North America, and men are generally expected to mask or conceal their feelings. In fact, studies have shown that men in North America only express one emotion more freely than women. One! Weird.

Now what could this one emotion be that is so awesomely powerful it is the only one men require to survive and exist on this crazy planet of ours? Why, it's anger, of course! Those of you in the room who had your hands up excitedly, ready to tell us all about the power of love, don't look so dejected! Anger is an exciting, dynamic emotion, with endless subtleties and varieties of expression. It's not a loss for us, it's a gain. Most men know that it was (probably) God who once said: "If I start out liking you, I might be disappointed, but if I start out hating you, there's nowhere to go but up!" Men have always instinctively known this to be true and are thus much better prepared to face the world's troubles (and dickheads) than women with all of their "different emotions" (confusing!), "expressive feelings" (tiring!), and "getting along" (boring!).

Studies have shown that men in other parts of the world are much more expressive with the other, shall we say, more "delicate" emotions than are North American men. These other parts of the world include France, Italy, The Middle East, and Spain. Is it any coincidence that these areas currently lead the world in random explosions at this time? See what unfocussed emotional expression gets you? In other areas of the world, including Germany, England, and Switzerland, the men may in fact even more freely express their sadness than the women (la-ame!). Wait, I thought Switzerland was "neutral." These same studies have shown that Asian men and women control their emotional expression equally, which is understandable because I would think Hari-Kari would take one steady frickin' hand. The emotional tally appears to be: World: quite a few emotions, Asia: no (discernible) emotions, North American Women: every freakin' emotion (fortunately for Dr. Phil) and finally, North American Men: one very special emotion.

What all this study reading and theorizing and making up of information has left me with, besides a warm and fuzzy feeling, is a sort of detente with my concern about my anger issues. I am not surprised that I was right to go to anger first all these years, why it is in my very nature! In fact I am so confident in my approach now, I may even try out some of the other emotions for fun some time and maybe put on my wife's clothes and carry around her little handbag telling everything that moves and has fur "I love you!" Christ! Not likely. I was also glad to see that, as usual, us men here in the New World are leading the way for our peers and that we have found the path to enlightenment: sweet, irrational, fearsome anger. If the Dalai Lama is on the ball, he should really consider "losing it" one of these days. He won't regret it.

Why the change?

2009-04-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

Simple. The black background was absolutely awful to try and read. Even though I thought it looked cool. Looks like I have no choice but to live and die by the written word, substance over style one might say. It's a choice I hoped I would never have to make, mostly because I really thought I would pick style, and that's a little embarrassing.

Is the Content Warning worth it?

2009-04-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that my..ahem...liberal use of profanity peppered throughout my little corner of the blogworld is shall we say, "superfluous." By "shall we say superfluous" I mean that there was a direct comment to the effect that the swearing was in fact superfluous. I don't think I could ever get tired of saying the word superfluous and the more often you say it, the more it starts to sound like a word from some weird alien language, which makes it even more enticing. Page 598 of my spine-broken and well worn Mini Oxford Dictionary defines the word "superfluous" quite succinctly and in a mere two small points as: more than is needed or wanted, useless. Ouch. Now I suddenly realize why I shouldn't have ever felt proud when people have said things in the past such as: "Well now that Brent has enlightened us with his superfluous commentary, has anyone else got something interesting to add?" I always thought that meant my ideas were somehow super and that those to follow could not possibly be anywhere nearly as interesting. I also need to contact a certain professor whose front-page-of -the-assignment scrawled comment of "What a pile of superfluous bullshit!" has suddenly taken on new meaning. I must admit, "pile" and "bullshit" should have set off some alarm bells through the self-satisfied fog I was in after receiving a "SUPERfluous." Sadly, the emphasis has been in my head all this time.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't take offense to it in the least. In fact it got me to thinking about the nature of all of this get-yourself-out-there, look-at-me-world, I-need-validation blogifying(?). It occurred to me that maybe I was wrong to choose the Content Warning for my little pulpit. Although the only people who will ever read it will undoubtedly be family and friends with (obviously) nothing better to do, what if some random person were to think my title seemed somehow more appealing to them than say,"Oh, for Fuck's Sake," or "Oh, for Fu*k's Sake," or even "Oh, for F**k's Sake" (trust me, they are all out there). Maybe this random person would think that my asterisk-filled title somehow set me apart from my foul-mouthed blogren, and that I was just giving a cheeky wink to the others with my almost-naughty name. Now let's just imagine this guileless avid reader spending a lazy Sunday afternoon reading random people's blogs and they decide to click on mine. Up pops the Content Warning. Goodness! One can imagine the thoughts racing through their head at this point: What am I in for? they might think. Why is there a Content Warning attached to this blog? they might ponder. What does it all mean? they might query themselves. I would hope that they wouldn't be worried that scantily-clad Amateur Housewives and self-gratifying monkeys lurked behind their next mouse click, but how would they know for sure? Could it possibly cost me a new person's access to my insanity? Do I care? And am I already selling myself out right here by not saying: "Do I give a fuck?"

I guess what all this introspective claptrap has shown me is that maybe I do care. My family and friends already know me and, warts and all, accept me for who I am, including my sometimes (always?) salty language. It does bother me a little to think that a stranger might judge me a cad due to my random use of the F word and its associates. By the same token, I have no respect for anyone who is offended by the use of a word just because they happen to find it offensive. In order to sound as pretentious as possible I will mention some other words and phrases that have been found offensive in the past: "Communist," "Democracy" and "Gordon Campbell." Okay that last one was just pandering to public applause, and technically has not lost its offensive lustre. I will stipulate to the fact that swear words are all too prevalent today for all the wrong reasons, and I am as guilty as anyone in their misuse. That being said however, I "clean up real good" in proper company and can hold my own without the use of profanity. The real issue for me is that I like to use it, and I live in a world where its non-use would be considered weird, so I am going to have to keep on walking the razor-thin line between just enough and too much. Much like offensive television programming in which viewers have the choice to change the channel, people are welcome to make a choice to participate or not. Hopefully I don't lose too many along the way. We might just have some fun here.

I am going to leave the last (paraphrased) words to a gem of a television show with the ability to produce hilarious comedy without profanity. In the Flight of the Conchords episode "What goes on tour," the boys' manager, disgusted with their (not so real) tour antics has decided to stomp out in protest. Their exchange goes somewhat like this:

Murray (the Manager): You guys make me so mad, I feel like swearing!
(He never swears on the show.)

Bret (band member): Aww, Murray you wouldn't do that.

Murray (face looking like a tomato about to explode):

Go fuck yourself, Bret!!

Appies!

2009-04-18T11:52:00.000-07:00

Today is our friend's surprise (like anyone hasn't screwed it up yet) 50th Birthday Bash, and I have undertaken making one or maybe more later-in-the-evening appetizers for us to take to the party. My wife was intending to make her World Famous Spinach Dip, but she had a course out of town today, so I convinced her I could handle the appy thing. So here I sit with a copy of "The Complete Book of Party Food and Appetizers" open in front of me. I am looking at page 48 right now which consists of a checklist entitled "Dinner Party Planner." Forty eight pages in and not one recipe. I am reminding myself that we have a frozen bag of battered cheese balls in the freezer that I could really dress up with a couple of celery sticks and some three cheese ranch salad dressing as a dip. However, I would like to try something new within my solidly defined boundaries of "Don't overdo it." I guess I'm going to soldier on and hopefully find something that appeals to me and meets my demanding criteria: can be made with shit I already have in the house. Page 94: Yay! Food! Can anyone in this world actually hold 93 pages of party food planning and basics in their head? And if they can, do something useful with your life, for fuck's sake!

Now a bit of background is probably in order. I love to cook. Absolutely love it. There is no greater satisfaction to me in this world than creating something that puts a smile on people's faces. It's obvious why our mothers enjoyed the serving of meals to their families. I know the making got tiresome though, and the trying to think of what to make was the worst part. I know that for a fact because I am going through it now, and it is extremely frustrating (the cheese balls are lookin' good). I have always liked to cook, probably driven by the fact that I love to eat (waay too much). It can be a very creative pursuit, and when I fuck up, it satisfies my daily rageaholic requirements of swearing and pissing and moaning about things that cannot be changed.

The kids, God bless them, take it all in stride. They often ask me questions when I'm cooking like: "Brent, if you went on Hell's Kitchen, do you think you would win?" I like to tell them that if I went on Hell's Kitchen I would tell Ramsay to go F himself, at which point he would probably try to make out with me and the show would have to be cancelled due to the the new, difficult-to-sell (in the testosterone fueled world of professional chefs) gay subtext. Hell, we know Ramsay's a manly man, he's been cheating on his wife with a "professional" mistress for years now! Manly stuff, that. If I had my way, we would win the lottery and I would spend all of my days, free of stress, cooking my heart out. We would all end up monstrously fat, and die deleriously happy from obesity created medical disorders. They would need to use a cold chisel in the funeral home to remove the fucking smiles from our faces (so we could get that just-resting look for the viewing). If we had decided to be cremated, I hope we'd croak in the Spring, the aroma might get everyone around town thinking about BBQ season.

So getting back to tonight's menu, I am thinking maybe Thai Chicken Bites and Peanut Sauce. The book informs me that the food should suit the occasion, but the Thai connection just makes me think of wrinkly old people in speedos at all-inclusive resorts, pothead backpackers, and repugnant sex-vacation types. I'm not sure there will be more than two of those population subtypes at the party tonight. Food for our types of parties (laughing, drinking, fun) may not be within the scope of the book I am using. It seems written for a different type of party (forced laughs, bloated egos, and longing glances exchanged with members of the wait staff). The person with the best insight to the whole food-fits-the-occasion thing has got to be the hot-dog cart guy that works out on the street after the bars close. He gets it. After a night of heavy drinking and sweaty dancing, a smokie fits the bill to a T. Hold the chardonnay.

Yes, yes, I hear you little cheeseballs. We might just see you yet.

Busting my literary cherry (How romantic!)

2009-04-18T00:36:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess it's kind of official. I have become one of the blogging horde. Obviously Facebook's little comment section just wasn't enough to satisfy my big ego and small vocabulary. Just kidding, I have a nicely sized vocabulary, my wife assures me that it's more than adequate. So now that I have set the tone with my claim that I am an angry overprivileged white male I should probably follow through with a ranting diatribe. Okay, so here goes...

Today's topic for an off-the-cuff rant will be....Susan Boyle. WTF!! I know, I know, I promised a lot of anger and those who read my profile have probably already logged off by now, but...

Earlier today, I was wasting my life commenting on other's comments on Facebook (Step 11 out of the 12 Steps of Suicide, Step 12 being the act itself). I had made comments to the effect that I thought it was ludicrous that Piers (Pinch Face) Morgan had let it be known that he wanted to be the first to kiss Susan Boyle. What a lucky girl! Perhaps Susan's dream is to be kissed by someone who's pockets aren't being lined by photo-op cash. Maybe she doesn't want to be kissed for fuck's sake (blog title references will abound, be forewarned). The people that have lined up since her performance to condescend to her and use her as an example of their own so-called moral breakthroughs make me puke. None of these assholes would have even remembered her name if she didn't have such a wonderful voice. And don't lie, we were all ready to share a titter at another goofy talent contest wannabe, but personally, it felt good to feel like an idiot when she did a great job of the task she set out to do: singing. We should definitely be more aware of the manipulations these shows are putting us through, a fresh set of eyes would be good for us all in the future.

Now that I have attempted to purge my own guilt, let's get back to good old Piers (Job Description: Donald Trump and Simon Cowell's Towelboy) and his ridiculous attempt to seem "earthy" and "connected" to the little people by claiming he wanted to plant the first smackeroo on Susan's virgin cheek. Piers, people (real people) don't fucking buy it when you show interest in them just because they dun good y'all. Susan deserves a kiss from someone who knows her and likes her and wants to kiss her, not someone whose (enlarged) paycheque depends on her. Lets face it, if she makes it through the competition and her talent is as valid as it seems at first blush, she won't need losers like Morgan and Cowell, she will be able to write her own ticket, and that is real power, ladies and gents.

Since I want a stream of simmering anger to run through this blog, I would like to say: Susan, I hope you win the whole thing and wipe your ass with the X-wielding losers standing in your way.
And please, for the Love of God, don't let Piers get his stripper-tainted lips near you. What? He is rich. And no, you-know-who, I am not on meds yet (you would be amazed how long you can fly under the radar with undiagnosed personality disorder!)

Feel free to comment, people, I desperately love to argue.