Confessions of a Strip Mall Santa

“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

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?

“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

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

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

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2009, The Year in Rear-View

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.