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.

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

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

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

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

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

iQ Test

Question 1:

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

A. All of them.

B. Every one of them.

C. The whole sorry goddamn lot.

D. Especially that Lame PC Guy from the commercial.

Question 2:

Rearrange the following words and letters to make a phrase:

YUB NA DOPi

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

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

B. A truly great idea.

C. Something wonderful.

D. The solution to blissful happiness.

Question 3:

STEVE JOBS is to GOD as GOD is to:

A. STEVE JOBS

B. STEVE JOBS

C. STEVE JOBS

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

Question 4:

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

$199, $299, $399, $499, …

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

B. Whatever the market will bear.

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

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

Question 5:

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

A. Joyous happiness and joy.

B. Loving loveness.

C. Joyful Loving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Undeserved? I Think not, Sir!

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

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

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

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

Dear Penthouse Forum,

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

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

Has Anyone Told Them Yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Short Guide to Politics, North American Style

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

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

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

The Conservatives (US: Repulsicans):

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

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

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

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

The Liberals (US: Dimbulb-crats):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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