Thursday, September 30, 2004

Surrogate Pillows?

(For the "Breakup Babe", if ever she happens to venture into these blog parts again)

A new consumer’s product is sweeping the Japanese marketplace by storm. Linen maker Kameo Corp., has now made available the new ‘Boyfriend’s Arm Pillow’; which consists of a headless torso and a stuffed arm that can curl around the sleeper.

That’s the creepiest thing I have EVER heard! Who wants to wake up to a headless torso of any kind? That just has to cause some future repressed memories and sweaty nightmares.

This special pillow offers single, borderline-desperate women the means to be able to curl up comfortably with something that won’t thrash, squirm, or try to slip the sausage up her ass in the middle of the night.

They are even set to release other newer models of the ‘Boyfriend’s Arm Pillow’. Muscular ones for sleepers who prefer to sleep with beefy Yokozuna types, or slender ones for those who dig the wimpy Woody Allen type instead. Isn’t that nice? I wonder if in the future they will create an arm pillow with track marks and tatoos for women those who are more accused to waking up in a strange place with passed out junkies?

What an odd compensation in lieu of lacking a real boyfriend. Man, if they start making these things so that they come with a built in vibrator and are able to take out the trash each night before bed; we men will be up Shit Creek without a pussy paddle, fella’s!

I can’t wait until they unveil the much anticipated men’s version of this pillow. It’ll probably just be a headless set of breasts that we can flop face down into and pass out.

Flight of the Crazytigerrabbitman (Part II)

Dallas / Ft. Worth International Airport; Gate E7 ~ Dallas, TX


Here in the airport lobby, I finally have the first opportunity I’ve had to actually breathe, relax my colon, and attempt to process all that I have absorbed over the last seven days of vacationing here in Texas. And by “absorbing”, I mostly mean the consuming of animal flesh.

For my entire stay here in the traditional Homeland of Barbeque, I have eaten more raw carcass than Jeffery Dalhmer on a high-protein Atkins Diet. My colon is screaming out from all the pure barbequed saucy animal parts that I have consumed here like a ravenous Velociraptor after a months stay at a Jenny Craig Weight Loss Ranch. Even my usual doses of precious Immodium (the consummate travel’s most valued commodity) were no match for the bowel busting BBQ platters served throughout the Lone Star State. Shit, Hell hath no fury on an unsuspecting and ill-prepared tourists bowel like the ‘Two Meat Combo’ platter at ‘Doc’s Barbeque’ * that features tender** cuts of steak and ribs covered in a rich gravy so thick that you could drown a prairie dog. Right now, I feel like a walking, breathing Chernobyl-sized disaster waiting to happen. Each time I sank my teeth into anything I expected to hear either moo’s or oink’s of protest from whatever platter of delectable corpse bits that I happened to be consuming at the time.

It must also be noted for interest’s sake that eating out anywhere in Texas, even Fine Dining and Cuisine, is on par with going out to dinner at the local High School cafeteria; sneeze guards and plastic trays as far as the eye can see! Texas has popularized the buffet style of food preparation and service with a vengeance. I’m not sure if this is a throwback to the good ‘ol Western Frontier days of eating out the back of a Chuck Wagon out on the range, being slung with dirty ladlefuls from a grizzly, cackling, nicotine-whiskered coot named Curly, or whether is just better lends itself to the natural Texan tendency to “mosie” their way through life.

The natural reaction I have upon hearing my plastic tray sliding over the metal runners on the buffet service counter is that of playing Euchre with my homeroom buddies between my Biology and Algebra classes. All that completes the flashback is some sausage-legged old woman in a hairnet spooning macaroni & cheese onto my sterilized cafeteria plate and hoping to catch a glimpse of Olga Furmunchen’s thighs as she bent over to free her Diet Tab from the vending machine across the room.

On the plus side, Texas has adopted the fantastic concept of providing a whole roll of paper towel right at the table for your immediate convenience. I not only LOVE this concept of blue-collar dining etiquette, but I am incorporating this easy, lip-smacking, greasy-finger dabbing delight into my normal everyday dining routines. In fact, I am considering expanding on this idea by hiring a migrant worker to simply follow me around with his two index fingers shoved inside the two ends of a cardboard roll of paper towel and to provide me an instant means of wiping sauce, juice, grease, drool, blood, semen, etc., off my fingers and face in a second if need be. No more hunting around desperately for a cloth or another useless paper napkin ***. That is a convenience that I can justify the senseless and careless rape of Mother Nature’s precious rainforests for. “Chop them fuckers down, Daddy has sticky fingers!”

(10:35AM ~ Flight 2430)

If the DC-9 that I flew down on looked like something manufactured by ‘Fisher Price’ than this teeny-weeny, impossibly small Embriar plane must surely be made by ‘Hot Wheels’. I’m sure that I’ve made bigger and more efficient airplanes on my recesses back in Grade Two. This thing can’t possibly be expected to carry us all the 1637 km to Cleveland all on it’s own! Can it?


Just prior to take-off, my stewardess has come around to ask, with a serious note I might add, to ask whether I would be willing to assist in the event of an emergency. WTF? Apart from momentarily feeling all ‘Die Hard 2’, what kind of rinky-dink airline would ever ask ME to help out in the event of an extreme crisis? Do I have Chuck Norris written on my seating assignment or something? “Call the Delta Force sweetheart, I ain’t no hero!”

Honestly, what kind of assistance could they possibly hope to afford out of me? Perhaps stick my arm out the window and flap if the air currents aren’t strong enough to carry this metallic sparrow all the way to Cleveland? Or, perhaps she is expecting me to slip on a ruffley apron, man the beverage cart, and serve the complimentary cocktails to the other passengers on the flight?

Of what possible assistance could I be? Maybe she is alluding to the fact that I am one of the passengers sitting by one of the Emergency Exits ****. Of course, it is already a given that there will be no concern since there will be an automatic Terry-sized hole in the side of the cabin if ever I were to so much as sniff out a whiff of danger on this flight. And with all the Texas barbeque that I’ve ingested over the past seven days, inevitably there will be enough room in that Terry-sized hole to easily accommodate a whole stampede of circus elephants with room to spare!

But hey, did I really request or need any of this extra responsibility with my given seat location? Do I really want the burden of the other passengers safety, or at least with their swift and expedient exit from the doomed aircraft? That’s a fuck of a lot of expectations for someone traveling in Coach class isn’t it? What if I can’t open the Emergency Exit in a crisis situation? I don’t want to die feeling like an underachiever. 11.2 kg, that sounds pretty heavy! I can see my tombstone epithet now:


Not exactly a flattering way to be remembered, is it?

But what am I supposed to say exactly? NO? Am I supposed to turn down this requested responsibility and still be able to maintain my kind, manly, take-charge kind of persona from the other passengers? I doubt it. Fuck, I’d be labeled as a traitor and hung out from the tail wing to be dragged all the way to Cleveland if I ever turned down the stewardess’s request.

So I reluctantly accept. Otherwise, I’d be the next Joe Asshole character on the next broadcast of ‘Airline’ on the Learning Channel. Even though I feel that I have little recourse but to accept this shackle of responsibility and give in to her request, I am still demanding some sort of badge to wear, like ‘Official Emergency Exit Operator’, ‘Have a Nice Jump’, ‘Hi! Ask Me About Our Emergency Specials!”, or something to that effect. Something that properly dignifies someone in my lofty position among the other passengers of Flight 2340 as “First Out the Door” in the case of emergency.

I’ll tell you one thing for certain however, if Mohammed El Higi-Hagi sitting across from me all of a sudden jumps up with a ceramic knife and tries to claim this aircraft in the name of ‘Billy Bob’s Crusade for Homeland Jihad’, they will find this newly appointed Airline Marshall balled up in the fetal position and weeping for his mommy in the overhead compartment.

(11:30AM ~ Somewhere over Arkansas)

I have several noteworthy observations from my week’s stay in Texas now that I am beginning to retrain my focus back from imagining the unfolding plotlines of numerous Steven Segal movies inside my head. Most obvious, is that everything in Texas is indeed bigger. It’s not just the pseudo-State motto and popular t-shirt emblem; everything here is in fact Biggie-sized! From the automobiles driving on the road to the plastic soft-drink straws that give you the impression that you are instead wielding a spear while hunting for whales among the iceberg cubes floating in your lake-sized glass of Yoo-hoo. I feel like I have entered the ‘Valley of Green Giant’ and I can just hear him “Ho, Ho, Hoing!” his green ass off across the Texan countryside. Big is definitely better here in Texas.

The vehicles in Texas are particularly noticeable. Texan trucks must be the biggest, most obnoxious automobiles in the world. Twice as large as a boxcar and so bad for the environment that you can actually watch the sky falling in your rearview mirror *****. There are personal trucks here so big that when they signal a right turn or tap their brakes a few times in front of you, it’s like staring into the huge musical checkerboard on the alien Mother Ship in ‘Close Encounter of the Third Kind’. I don’t know whether to go around and pass somebody or to attempt ‘First Contact’. “Duh-dah dah-duh daaaah. Yeah, yeah, yeah…A, B, G, G, D to you too, mutherfucker. NOW CHANGE LANES ALREADY!”

It could be made into a best selling t-shirt slogan: “I Went to Texas and All I Brought Back Was Road Rage”. There are over 77,133 km of Interstate Highway (40, 985 km of which are paved farm and ranch roads) and every muthafuckin’ inch of it is paved with contempt, colorful creative insults ******, and grid-lock. Navigating through this elaborate highway system is like working an applecart through a china shop; constantly jockeying for position in the choked lanes and thruways. Turnpikes and thruways all intermingle like concrete octopi coiled up and passively sitting on the horizon. It may also seem that every possible route is constantly under construction. By the sheer number of traffic cones alone, I could make the assumption that the ‘Neon Orange Traffic Cone’ is the official State Flower of Texas instead of the Blue Bonnet.

It seemed like we were forever being funneled down to single lanes of traffic along with every other monster truck, tank, and rickety pickup on the road (of which is it curious to note, that almost every vehicle in Texas is either towing a lawn mower or another piece of heavy yard care equipment behind it, or has a brightly-colored drink cooler bungeed to the side like a malignant tumor).

Despite the fact that important ordinary road signs and directional advertisements are left more to the subliminal in their overall effectiveness and usefulness, Texas also loves it’s big billboards that line the freeways. Advertising as either “Texas Proud”, or “Texas Tough’, billboards advertise just about the widest assortment of local goods and services available anywhere. From ‘Tons More Girls at Stacey’s Massage’ to the ‘New Breakfast Biscuits at Whataburger’ to ‘Charlies Indoor Shooting Range & Discount Liquor’ (North Main, Ft. Worth); there is no limit to the elephantine commodities available to satisfy your every demand. By the time you’ve reached your destination you’ve read the equivalent of Mellville’s ‘Moby-fucking-Dick’ in billboard advertisements!

It’s no wonder that with all this generated anxiety and frustration that people drive in Texas as if it were a matter of life or death, which by all accounts in the traffic updates on the local news channels, it may just fucking well be! Road Rage is almost as popular a thought-of sport as the Rodeo, NASCAR or the Pig Races. Even the aforementioned ‘Doc’s Barbeque’ in Hickory Creek, TX proudly offers a “Defensive Driving Free Dinner” on it’s outside billboard. Traveling the highways in Texas during rush hour traffic is like going for a leisurely drive through post-apocalyptic Australia with mutant drivers bearing down on you and wielding crossbows and maces, and with tongues lolling out the sides of their mouths like crazed dogs. Heaven help you if you should ever accidentally cut off Gramma Ethel in the passing lane without signaling, and in retaliation she draws out her pistol and begins to shoot out the tires of your car! Hell, I wouldn’t feel safe driving in Texas unless I was behind the wheel of a Panzer tank.

Also on the large sized scale in Texas are the enormous sprawling buildings laid out over the vast flat countryside. Such immense sounding merchandising Mecca’s as ‘Boot City’, ‘RV Town’, or ‘BBQ World’ sound like places where you would have to book reservations in advance through a Travel Agency before going shopping. It may take you hours to work your way down the buffet counter at ‘Pawnee Pete’s BBQ & Stag Shop’, but you’ll never have to feel the weight of your man boobs as you struggle reluctantly up flights of stairs.

(12:25PM ~ Somewhere over Tennessee)

Great. More fucking Spinzels.


What is this whole “Texas Pride” thing about anyways? Why are they so proud and hoity-toity about boasting about being united under the ‘Six Flags Over Texas’? to me, that means that during the course of history they have had their asses kicked, defeated, and occupied by the flags of six different invading political entities; Spain, France, Mexico, Republic of Texas, the Confederacy, and the United States. Wait, even the MEXICANS kicked their ass on the battlefield at some point? That’s hardly something to boast about. Particularly by people who commonly mount gun racks in the rear windows of their giant Subaru’s. I wouldn’t be bragging too loudly if I were to have my ass waxed by Senor Ricardo Jose Hernandez Rodriguez Alverez Ramirez Jr., wearing a sombrero, and riding around on a burro waving a basic flintlock rifle. I’d say the State of Texas should be considering more apt slogans such as those like “Nashville Pussy”, or along those guidelines anyways.

Cleveland Municipal Airport; Gate D17 ~ Cleveland, OH


A deboarding later and I am an actual participant of a reality-based game of Airport Bingo as I scamper through the endless airport concourses that stretch out like Dutch Greenhouses looking for Gate D17. I may not get a piece of cheese when I arrive at my destination, but at least I get the evil satisfaction of leading at least two dozen other lost travelers from Flight 2340 through the most roundabout abstract route to the next departure Gate as possible; making sure to hit all the popular Terminal hot spots, like the ‘Pizza Hut’ and ‘Kookie’s Airport Lounge’ (hey, I wonder if he ever found his comb?).

It is kind of fun to walk in airports with all those moving walkways between terminals and concourses. It’s like you can speed walk at light speed past the slow, the old, the encumbered, as well as away from the other lost tailing passengers inevitably following you. “Set a course for Gate D17 in the Cleveland System. Punch it, Chewie!”

I was hopin to see Drew Carey hocking Buzz Beers, or at least Randy Newman singing about burning rivers or something at Kookie’s; but lo and behold, it was not meant to be.

The complete lack of Japanese passengers has me thinking that either Cleveland is not up to International Airport Cultural Standards, or the people of Cleveland secretly love real authentic Asian cuisine (if you catch my drift). Remind me not to try the ‘Moo Goo Pork Balls w/ Cream of Sum Yung Guy’ when I’m next back here in Soylent Green, Ohio.

(3:30PM ~ Flight 5540)

So, while waiting in line at Kookie’s to purchase a package of ‘Pizza Flavored Combo’s’, I got to thinking about the people of Texas from which I had a prior fascination. From the colorful conversations I’ve had previously with Texan’s at work, I had pre-determined a breed of individual who at first will greet you with all the down home warmth of Grandma’s apple pie warming on the window sill; but if provoked, will instantly transform into the kind of person who wears a mask stitched together from human faces, has a chicken hanging in a birdcage in his living room, and carves up his evening ham roast with a chainsaw. More directly, I was expecting a cross between Yosemite Sam and Boomhauer from ‘King of the Hill’.

Apart from the Interstates and highways, Texans are generally never in a hurry to do anything or get anywhere; they “mosie”. They are quite content to politely stand in line for hours for their turn to pour a drink from the soda fountain in the buffet line. You could spend your entire Golden Years waiting in line at the local Goojar Mart waiting to buy a six-pack of light beer and a Butterfinger. By the time you have been checked out by the cashier, your Twinkie will have expired, and the centerfold from your new edition of Hustler Magazine will have aged, retired, and will be listing “Bingo, high-fiber food, Botox treatments, and playing with my grandchildren” on her list of ‘Turn On’s’. Father Time himself would have gotten impatient waiting in line for his ‘Wine & Live Bait’.

In this way, Texans are very similar to the abundantly popular Texas Longhorns that graze the ranchlands. The Official State Animal of Texas is the Armadillo; a slow, awkward, tough rodent that is only migrating north at a breakneck rate of 6 miles per year. Sometimes, it’s like talking to a borderline autistic child waiting for his ‘Breakfast Biscuits at Whataburger’. And I’m sure the cashiers themselves are about as quick and able as a tranquilized possom in performing their duties. I’d go completely fucking bald from ripping out my hair waiting impatiently in line within the first month of living in Texas.

Likewise, they are always “fixin” to do something. To listen to a native Texan, you’d think that absolutely everything in this state was broken or at least in dire need of repair. Are they trying to imply that they are still meaning to do something but just haven’t managed to get off their fat asses yet to do it? “Fixin’? It ain’t broken. So quit thinking about it and DO IT, mutherfucker!”

(3:52PM ~ Somewhere over Pennsylvania)

More fucking Spinzels. On the trip to Hell they will be handing packets of Spinzels.


Texas is a complete cultural oddity all unto it’s own, with events, totems, and traditions that defy reasonable explanation. For example, in Sweetwater they hold the annual ‘Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup’, which festivities include: a parade,a dance, a Ms. Snake Charmer Queen Contest, a rattlesnake eating contest, snake-handling demonstrations, and a 10k run. Annually, they can roundup an excess of over 7,000 Diamondback Rattlesnakes from the surrounding area. WTF? A 10k run? Fuck, no shit Billy Bob! Surround me with 7,000 pissed off diamondback rattlesnakes and I'm suddenly fixin' to set a new land speed record in that bad boy! What kind of tourist spends a vacation wandering around a strange countryside in their Birkenstocks and clam-diggers looking for just the opportunity to poke at a pissed off venous reptile with a stick? Not this one!

Likewise, in the small town of Olney, there is an annual ‘One Arm Dove Hunt’ in September. An event of International repute, the hunt attracts arm and hand amputees for two days of fun and fellowship and, of course, shooting doves out of the sky. Pardon? Where else but in Texas can you celebrate over your tragic handicap by participating in a competitive slaughter of the very symbols of World Peace? I bet that’s a real moot point for Greenpeace, as well as for the doves!

The coastal town of Clute (wasn’t that a Jane Fonda movie?) celebrates the ‘Great Texas Mosquito Festival’ annually in July. This particular Texan foray into the bizarre, was intended as a special tribute to the town’s festival mascot ‘Willie Manchew’ (get it?), the World’s Largest Mosquito? WTF? Why would you even bother to pay homage to one of the world’s most annoying and insignificant of God’s creatures? Not to mention the grossest, the ugliest, and especially the fucking LARGEST of them? They probably offer up willing virgins for Willie to suck on as part of some sacrificial ritual. How disturbing is that?

In typical “Texas Pride” fashion, there is even a State Seashell; the Lightning Welk. It is interesting to note here that the Lightning Welk is unique in that its aperature is on the left side of its shell instead of the usual right. Uh-oh! I’m surprised that the reigning Ring-wing Democrat Powers-that-be haven’t lobbied to have this Communist, non-conforming Liberal seashell ousted and replaced with another seashell a little more normal conservative to more correctly reflect the established ideals of the Conservative majority of Texas. Look for the new “War Against Seashells” political acumen to emerge as the hot topic in the next election campaign coverage on television.

Lastly (but not leastly), the official State Flying Mammal is the ‘Mexican Free-tailed Bat’. How many fucking flying mammals do they have soaring above the Texan countryside that policy demands they name an “Official State Flying Mammal”? Besides flying squirrels, I’m hard pressed to even think of another flying mammal anywhere in the world. But here in Texas, they must have scads of them. I bet the flying squirrel is pretty sour about the whole raw deal since, in essence, he’s lost out on this particular claim to fame to such a homely and loathsome creature; a Mexican bat.

Then again, you’ve never heard of ‘Squirrelman’ have you?


On either side of the hanging Deli menu board at ‘Colters BBQ’ in Corinth, there are two signs. One sign brazenly announces that “The 2nd Ammendment is Homeland Security”, while the sign on the other side of the menu board reads “Life Is Too short to Live in Dallas”. Now at the time, I would have loved to have openly engaged the bored looking Latino cashier about the intended ramifications behind such a dual political statement, but then I thought that I might just end up as a choice of meat cut on the Deli buffet menu. So I didn’t, and I mosied my way off to my table to enjoy my ‘Po Boy Sandwich’ and burn through an entire acre worth of Brazilian rainforest in paper towel to clean my fingers.

What I like to think, is that the seemingly polar opposite menu signs, were instead attempting to suggest that Texans are a very forthright, straight-shooting, ornery breed of hardened, boot-wearing, shit-kicking motherfuckers; but who can still maintain an open and free-minded humor in themselves too. Or at least I hope so, otherwise when I get around to publishing this I’m sure to be a marked man. Cue the ‘Bon Jovi’:

“I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I’m wanted dead or alive
Wanted dead or alive”

Buffalo Niagara Airport; Baggage Claim ~ Buffalo, NY


My fold-up table has been put back up into the seat ahead of me, my seat has been returned to its original upright position, my bags have been collected, and the Immodium in my system is beginning to loose its stranglehold on my sphincter muscle. Another journey, another adventure complete.

And like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of my life. Was Texas everything I thought it was going to be? No, of course not. But then again, is anything ever how you exactly imagined it? The bottom line is this: I journied into the gaping maw of Bush County, and I did infact manage to get out alive. And not only "well", but with my colon and good spirits to boot!

“Home, James!”

* And which also proudly boasts the “Largest Pig in Texas!”

** I suspect that Texans have in fact, grown beyond keeping their livestock in small cages and leg irons, but instead entomb their animals in full body casts at birth until the time of their slaughter, in order to properly ensure only the juiciest, tenderest morsels of meat.

*** Which in most cases at a Texan Barbeque would be about as efficient as attempting to dam up the Amazon River with popcycle sticks.

**** An observation that I later confirmed after paying attention to the pre-flight Synchronized Audio-Mime Act before take-off.

***** Yes, I stole this from Bill Maher.

****** Among my personal favorites: Fuckstink, Douchetool, Cocksmoke, Assmunch, Shitcock, and Cumfuck. Fucktard is currently only just waiting to be voted on and published into the newest edition of the ‘Texas State Dictionary’ by elected State Magistrates in Austin.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

There Is a Headache

I was listening to the radio on the drive home from work today when on the radio I happening to hear Donovan’s ‘There Is A Mountain’. And it struck me; what the fuck is this guy trying to say exactly? Furthermore, how did such a swan song of complete insanity, albeit catchy and quirky, ever catapult this guys career into Superstardom? I don’t get it.

Let’s analyze the evidence, shall we?

“The lock upon my garden gate's a snail, that's what it is.”

This would trip Lewis Carroll the fuck out! So, to get anywhere in this guys yard you first have to maneuver through the garden gate that has yicky, slimy snail spuzz all over the latch handle? I don’t know about you; but I don’t need to attend any backyard garden BBQ bad enough to ever try and get past something like that!

“First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.”

So is there a mountain or isn't there a mountain? I'm confused. Put the fucking bong down Donovan, and make up your fucking mind already! Can you imagine getting driving directions from someone like this? “Well, first go drive down here until you see the mountain…no, wait. There’s no mountain…wait, of course there is! No, maybe not. Oh, yeah there is a mountain…NO WAIT! I would have rolled up my window and backed my car up over his ass a few times with impatient frustration by the time he got this far in the directional assistance.

“The caterpillar sheds his skin to find a butterfly within.
Caterpillar sheds his skin to find a butterfly within.”

Did he just stutter or something? Thanks, David Suzuki. I got it the first time.

“First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain.”

Again with this “mountain” bullshit!

“Oh Wanita, oh Wanita, oh Wanita, I call your name.
Oh, the snow will be a blinding sight to see as it lies on yonder hillside.”

WANITA?! He’s singing to somebody named WANITA? Is this his love interest or is he just trying to summon his housekeeper or something? One thing I can say for sure is that anyone named Wanita sure isn’t going to be seeing blinding snow on her side the mountain anytime soon! Maybe torrential downpour or oppressive heat; but snow, NEVER!

Monday, September 27, 2004

I Am the Scorpion Queen!

A Malaysian woman, Nur Malena Hassan (27 years old) has set a new world record after living with over 6,000 scorpions for over 32 days straight, crushing the former world record set by Kanchana Ketkeaw from Thailand who only spent 31 days in a glass box with only a mere 3,400 scorpions. Pffft! What a pussy!

Hassan was only able to leave her 3 x 3.6 meter glass display case for a daily 15 minute bathroom break and for a quick 2 minute opportunity to cut a cake in celebration of her birthday. Malena has been hailed as the “Scorpion Queen” in this Southeast Asian country after first setting the record in 2001 by living with 2,700 scorpions for 30 days.

She claims to have spent the last five years training and conditioning her bodies immunity to Scorpion poison. Wow, that’s some kind of potent buzz this chick is developing a nice little dependency for. Can scorpion venom be considered a gateway drug? Where most of us smoke pot, or drink quantities of cheap liquor as a recreational relaxant; Malena mainlines pure scorpion poison just for kicks. This is the last person you’ll ever find passed out helpless on roofies and Jell-o shots at any Fraternity kegger. She’ll be having her way with the incoherent, non-functioning, drunken Frat boys instead.

What kind of nutbar would ever want to be cooped up at length with thousands of deadly scorpions anyways? That’s just ludicrous! During her bid for Guiness Greatness, Malena was stung a total of 17 times. Fuck, if I even so much as get bitten by a single mosquito, I pack up all my shit immediately and head for the protection and comfort of home. Symptoms of scorpion bites include convulsions and shortness of breath (basically, the same as having passed a really much-needed turd after a weeks worth of cheeseburgers). Malena can now withstand being stung up to three times within a short span of time. WTF? Once is bloody fucking enough, don’t you think?

But regardless, this is some pretty impressive stunt to sit for 36 days with 6,069 scorpions as her claim to fame. I wonder what else Malena does for yucks in her spare time? Can you imagine reading the ‘Hobbies & Interests’ section on her personal resume?

“In my spare time, I like to read old Biology textbooks, take long walks on the beach in the moonlight, dabble in French cooking and cuisine, croqueting and knitting, and sitting in glass boxes with thousands of creepy-crawly scorpions.”

As it was, spectators flocked to the public mall in Kuantan to see this sponsored stunt by a biscuit company. Yeah, that’s exactly where I’d want to spend 36 fucking days concentrating on avoiding scorpion bites. I’m sure the thousands of excited and anxious public onlookers provided a more-than-tranquil environment for poor Malena to get comfortable with her oodles of deadly roommates and focus on the task at hand of staying alive for incarceration. To help pass the time slept, ate, performed Muslim prayers, read magazines and watched television.

I’m equally sure that must have been highly entertaining to the stunt onlookers. “She’s still sitting there motionless. Not moving…not moving…still not moving…Ooooh, look! She just twitched an eyelash! Did you just see that? Amazing! How does she do that?”

Now what kind of abyss of total boredom do the Malaysians live in when they have to concoct such fantastic spectacles in the face of complete and utter danger? No right-minded North American would ever agree to stage a stunt like this, no sir! Over here, just crossing the street safely, or managing to complete a full day at work without being picked off by a Bell Tower sniper is both thrilling and rewarding enough!

The Wonder Years

Word has hit the street that Interstate Bakeries Corp., the purveyor of such lunch box staples as ‘Wonder Bread’ and ‘Twinkies’, have filed for bankruptcy protection, compelled by the combination of a more health-conscious public and smothering operational costs.

In the wake of this announced financial disaster, generations of loyal consumers will stand to lose a significant part of their lunchtime heritage. “What, no ‘Wonder Bread’? No ‘Twinkies’? End it all now, I can’t bare to go on!”

For more than a year, Interstate Bakeries has struggled with declining sales of it’s breads and sweet goods products, a drop the company and analysts blame on the popularity of high-protein, low-carb diets such as Atkins or South Beach diets. Health has come back into fad. Who could have ever known?

The company was hurt by the “lack of innovation” in responding to the low-carb market craze, and didn’t even release a low-carb product until this past February. This diet trend, combined with the company’s high debt and overhead costs led to this inevitable bankruptcy filing. Great, another life ritual I will be forced to abandon along with Cherry Coke, Culture Club and classic Scooby-Doo.

Who really wants any of these new “whole wheat”, “low-carb”, or “sun-dried” bullshit breads anyways? When it comes to lunchtime, I like my bread bleached, my juice powdered, my cheese processed, and my ‘Twinkies’ to have a shelf life into the next millennium. I’m a simple man of simple tastes. I don’t want any of this “fresh baked”, "freshly-squeezed", or “all natural” crap! I was raised on non-nutritional food by-products, and that’s just the way I like it! Now, if they ever announce that they are ceasing to make my beloved ‘Kraft Macaroni & Cheese’ I will be reduced to curling up under my bed in the fetal position and praying for a quick, painless death.

These damn trendy Healthzoids won’t be happy until they have stripped the rest us regular schleps of all our guilty pleasures and lifestyle habits and all our processed and mass-produced tokens of Blue-collardom will be snuffed out under heel with their “whole grain”, “Vitamin-enriched” madness. Who can eat anything called ‘Harvest Crunch’ anyways? The only way bread should ever be crunchy is unless it’s toasted! Otherwise, I want my bread to suck the very pigment from my skin as I chew up the bland wadded mass of gooey bleached goodness in my mouth.

What next, Free-range Peanut Butter?

The good news is that thanks to the current mass over-production and complex chemical makeup of ‘Twinkes’, there will be a guaranteed reliable supply until the year 3047. Enough to pollute and under-nourish many future generations to come!

Saturday, September 25, 2004

Is that Rigor-Mortis in Your Pocket, or Are You Happy to See Me?

California Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger has signed new state legislation that now prohibits sex with corpses. Essentially, it is no longer legal in the State of California to love your mommy. Well, not too much anyway.

This new bill makes the culmination of a two-year drive to outlaw necrophilia and assist prosecutors who have been stymied by the lack of an official ban on the practice. This new law makes sex with a corpse a felony punishable by up to eight years in prison. EIGHT YEARS? WTF?! That’s all the sick fuck would get for banging a dead body? Shit, would should lock them up and throw away the key! Eight years, whoppee shit! I’ say that’s a very small price to pay to be able to indulge in your darkest, most forbidden carnal desires.

This bill is in response to a bizarre string of instances over the past decade involving allegations of necrophilia, including a case involving a man charged with having sex with the dead body of a 4-year old in Southern California (which by the way, stalled last year in a legislative committee) and a man who was found in a San Fransisco funeral home drunk and passed out on top of an elderly woman’s corpse (which as it happens, prompted the reviving of this pre-mentioned stalled legislature as prosecutor’s failed to indict this man due to the absence of law). Geez, that sure must have been one hell of a keg party the night before! What a claim to fame this guy has on history, huh? “Last thing I remember was doing some Jello-shots and a keg stand, and next thing I know I’m balls deep in some dried up corpses cooch and they’re issuing new State Legislature!” Bravo, you sick twisted fuck. Rock on with your bad self.

I’m not sure which is more disturbing: the fact that such a law was even necessary in the first fucking place, or the failure of lawmakers to pass it last time around and allowing another incident of necrophilia to not only occur, but go unpunished. I mean, what kind of Freakshow are they running over there on the West Coast? If they’re not sticking small rodents up their rectums, or standing in line for caffeine enema’s, they’re running amuck in graveyards, funeral homes, and mortuaries fucking stiffs. What is this strange taboo that Californian’s have with sticking things where they don’t belong? Why the fuck would anybody even consider taking a vacation to the Golden State is beyond me. Honestly, I’d rather spend my vacation in the general population at a Turkish prison.

Since when did we have the need to pass laws in order to clearly establish human decency? Even more crazy, is that they needed to elect the fucking Conan the Barbarian to do it! The flip-side to this argument may be that why is there the need for strict legislature against something in which no living person is actually harmed. Corpses are in fact dead after all, and they are not technically being abused nor are they causing any more harm than had the deviant in question only been fucking a sun-dried tomato instead. I expect this side of the argument would be quelled just as soon as one went down to the family cemetery to lay some flowers on grandma’s grave, maybe read a poem in effigy, have a “moment”, but instead find mentally unbalanced, sexually-stunted, Moonbeam Corpsehumper with dearly departed Nana’s body, banging away on a mound of dirt like a three-peckered Billy goat at a wool farm. That disturbing sight would sway even the most deviant of sex offenders towards favoring the new Anti-Necrophilia Bill. Shit, I bet even Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer, would have voted ‘Yay’ to this particular legislature!

Schwartzenegger’s necrophilia law now falls in with other ridiculous state laws that seem to be necessary and mandated in order to keep this bizarre state of freaks from spiraling any further down into the kevels of Hall and complete human depravity. For example, women in California are prohibited from driving their vehicle in a housecoat. It is illegal for anyone to stop a child from playfully jumping over puddles of water in the sidewalk. And, in the city of Castaic: if your dentist accidentally pulls the wrong tooth, you are legally entitled to pull one of his teeth in return. Holy shit, suddenly Neverland Ranch seems like the one of the last bastions of civilized behavior in the whole of California. What kind of changing bizarre world do we live in when Michael “Freakshow” Jackson could ever be considered the pinnacle of Californian normality?

I wonder what the next new commonsense legislature will be unnecessarily adopted in the “Promised Land”? Canabalism? Bathing in nuclear waste? Hunting dolphins with hand grenades? Sodomizing endangered snow leopards in protected National Parks?


Flight of the Crazytigerrabbitman (Part I)

Airports, and airline travel in general, are as about as natural to our basic human behavior as Diane Fossey being mounted by a giant Silverback Mountain Gorilla. And just guess who’s getting the short end of that stick?

Buffalo Niagara Airport; Gate 21 ~ Buffalo, NY


I survived the dreaded airport security with only little incident. Apparently, my steel toe shoes may be the new preferred weapons of choice used by the world’s top leading terrorists *, and I had to put them through for inspection separately. Pausing only briefly to wave that metal detector wand over my crotch and having it go off like a droid having an orgasm (which in hindsight, was the most flattering thing to happen to me in 6 whole months, even if it did make me feel momentarily like a marked threat to society), my carry-on bag and shoes were returned to me. Shit, I’d sure hate to be the low-man on the airport security guard’s Union roster that inevitably had to search the insides of my funky shoes. No doubt he had to use a gas mask to do so. Why would I even attempt to smuggle drugs when all I have to do is take a quick whiff of my insoles and achieve a buzz that would have any street junkie immediately checking into the Betty Ford Clinic for treatment. “Hey, don’t bogart that shoe, dood.”


I think that there is some sort of International Law of Travel that governs that at least ¾ of all passengers, travelers, and occupants of any reputable airport must be Oriental or Asian in decent. If any self-respecting International airport should fail to meet these established requirements then I suspect that they are subject to be shutdown immediately. You’d think I was in downtown Hong Kong instead of the lobby at Gate 21 of the Buffalo Niagara Airport. I suddenly crave Dim Sum and Bubble Tea. By the time we board and Flight 1125 takes off, I expect I will be fluent in about a dozen Eastern languages. “Ticket and boarding pass please? Ay! Yoo gimme-a yo tickee!”

Also, I think that I am the only one here that is not wearing some sort of metallic-lined, translucent, designer space-age sporting travel wear. They look so streamlined that I swear I could throw any one of these chinks out the Terminal window and they would glide all the way to Detroit on their own.


Now that I closely look at my day’s flight itinerary, I am realizing that you need to have a Masters PhD in Quantum Physics and specializing in Chaos Theory in order to completely understand it. If I am deciphering it correctly, the flight from Buffalo to Detroit will last only 1 hour and 15 minutes. Just enough time to find your seat and get comfortable before it will be time to deplane again **. Basically, if you were to launch a fart immediately after take off, by the time the ominous stench were to reach the cockpit and threaten to overcome the controlled consciousnesses of the pilots, we would be landing again (much to the relief of the other passengers I’m sure). I wonder if for such a short flight, whether there will even be any seats and we’ll all stand up and hold onto handrails from the ceiling for support like we were riding on a city bus instead? Certainly there will be no time to serve a meal or show an onboard movie. They will probably just throw out some packets of soup crackers and perform a brief ‘Punch n’ Judy’ show with sock puppets.

The DC-9 airplane itself looks like something that would be manufactured by Fisher Price and I can scarcely believe that this whole lobby will fit on this particular flight. I’m sure all the Oriental people are quite accustomed to traveling in such confined conditions and they could probably make the whole trip to Detroit securely stowed away in the overhead compartment, but for somebody who occupies the kind of spatial girth that I do, it’s like being crammed into a large Tylenol capsule with wings. My ass barely wedges into the seat ***. I’d probably feel more comfortable riding on a lawn dart.

The seats are situated so close together that I will probably become engaged to the lady sitting beside me by the time we land and hour and fifteen minutes later. So I guess we should get better acquainted now.

Me: “So, how do you react to loud noises?”
Her: (smile drops into a suspicious stare) “Why?”
Me: “Because I’ll probably be screaming bloody fucking murder in your ears during take-off.”

Swing and a miss!

(12:49PM ~ Runway)

The stewardess’ pre-flight introduction did little to settle my nerves before take-off as she whipped through the planes safety and emergency procedures over the cabin intercom as if she were trying to get off the phone with a telemarketer. Her companion at the front of cabin was furiously miming out her instructions for our visual benefit but did not reveal any other insights as it instead seemed like she was trying to direct traffic with her hands. I didn’t know whether to toss loose change at her feet and hope for a lap dance, or try to parallel-park into the seat behind me.

Also, what the fuck does “In case your floatation device fails to inflate…” mean anyway? For $300 fucking dollars on a plane seat, I want a mutherfuckin’ guarantee that my floatation device will not only inflate instantly, but will transmit an S.O.S. signal automatically to the nearest Emergency Response Unit in the vicinity…“Avec Haste!”

(1:07PM ~ Somewhere over Upsate New York)

Why is it that people are not allowed to use electronic equipment during flight? Cell phones, Personal Computers, mini-televisions, and other transmitting devices I can understand as I suspect that the captain would not want his communications with the control tower to be interrupted by the opening credits and theme to ‘I Love Lucy’, or Xieng Moo Chow calling her neighbor on her Verizon cell phone to check and see if she remembered to turn off the kitchen faucet. But what about old-fashioned, non-transmitting, battery driven devices like Walkmans or Nintendo Gameboys? Hey, if the control and communication systems on this craft that we’re currently traveling on is so fucking delicate that it could be interfered with by some dude playing Tetris in the rear cabin crapper so easily, then maybe we shouldn’t be on this fucking flying death trap in the first place! “Tower Control, this is Northwest Flight 1125 preparing for landing. Oh my fucking God! There’s a huge trapezoid coming straight at us, and there’s nowhere to slot him into! Mayday! Repeat, MAYDAY!

(1:35PM ~ Somewhere over Lake Ontario, north of Pennsylvania)

On a good note, the packets of ‘Spinzels’ (braided pretzel bits, as opposed to bended pretzels) were delightfully delicious and satisfying. And according to the “Nutritional Facts” on the back of the packet, Spinzels contain only 1 gram of saturated fat. Why would you ever want to know what the nutritional value is of your packet of complimentary snack food? Who is that health conscious?

Stewardess: “Complimentary snack, sir?”
Healthzoid: “Well, that depends. How many milligrams of sodium and cholesterol are in them?”

It is also interesting to note that any further health concerns on Spinzels and Spinzel-related snacks can be answered online at or emailed directly to

Detroit Metro Airport; Arrivals Runway ~ Detroit, MI


Why do people clap upon landing? Are they just so thrilled that they arrived alive in one piece. “Hurray! We live to travel again!” Man, if everyone is this elated after he or she has landed, one can only assume then that they were nervous or doubtful while in the air all along. So why do they always say: “flying is the safest way to travel” and then still be so secretly frightened? Does anybody clap and cheer when you successfully pull off the Interstate in your car? These are inevitably the same people who answer out “…and AFTER!” each time B4 is called out at a Bingo Hall. It’s just an automated reaction to the events around them, like a canary instantly being lulled to sleep when you drape a blanket over the cage.


I am also perplexed about the “Motion Discomfort” bag provided for me in my seat. That’s quite a real fancy and politically correct way to say: “Barfbag”, if you ask me. If I was suddenly struck with “Motion Sickness” and was about to hurl my brains out in a stream of total wickedness, I’m not so sure I would have the understood recognizance to know what the “Motion Discomfort” bag was for exactly, as opposed to say, “In case of yuckiness, Barf HERE! “Motions Discomfort” sounds like something you would suffer from by sitting in these fucking tiny-ass seats!

Detroit Metro Airport; Gate A3


Detroit Metro airport is like the boarding area in the Schwartzenegger blockbuster ‘Total Recall’, complete with indoor monorail between terminals, laser-operated hand towel dispensers in the Men’s room (isn’t that something that I could be doing myself or am I suddenly unfit to determine how much paper towel is required to adequately dry my hands after I finish taking a leak?), and an ominous automated announcement system forever reminding me to not leave my bag unattended, or to “report anybody who may request (me) to carry any foreign objects” to Airport Security Heaven help me if I should ever decide to piggyback one of these Oriental passengers down to Gate A3 instead of riding the monorail like the other passengers! It would be absolute anarchy I’m certain, and I would end up with my very own automatic character profile on the Interpol database.

I will say this about the Detroit Metro Airport; the leather lobby seats at the Terminal Gates are incredibly comfortable. All I need is a whiskey on the rocks and a sexy stewardess to perform lap dances for me and I could spend the rest of my vacation right here! I wonder what my chances are of getting Wilco to perform here in the airport lobby for me are? I can survive on just the $3.49 Peanut-butter and Jelly sandwiches from ‘Hungry Howie’s Pizza’ for the week; no problem. What a great way to spend a layover.

What else is there to do in Detroit until my next flight departs? Maybe I could light a tire fire or start a race riot or something. I wonder what The Four tops are doing right now?

(3:02PM ~ Onboard Flight 697)

It’s fun to pass through the first class passengers when boarding on my way back to the very ass of the plane. Most of them are busy conversing with the air around them on little super-technological, state-of-the-art cellular phones that fit into their very ear canals. They look like something James Bond would use to contact his other Secret Services operatives at MI6 on. “Hello, Moneypenny? Are my reservations at the Dallas Hilton squared away? Good. Also, send my rocket cufflinks to Q-Branch for repair like a good girl, will you please, dear? Cheers.”

What is the point exactly of boarding families with small children and disabled passengers first? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to board the cranky and the irritable first? And THEN let the slow, the sick, and the weak clamor aboard last for whatever space is still available in the cabin. Let those of us who are able-bodied and impatient get to our seats and get comfortable first before letting the insufferably slow on as to not cause any unnecessary crowding or waiting. In the wild, we would be leaving them behind to be picked off by predators anyways. Why should airplanes be any different? The ‘Law of the Jungle’ applies here in the world of domestic charter aviation as well, doesn’t it? Try explaining “Courtesy Boarding” to a herd of caribou roaming the Arctic tundra, or a similar herd of gazelle wandering the African plains. Only the strong will survive and press on with the journey. Its Darwinism in it’s most simplistic of modern forms. “Outta my way, Tiny Tim. I have to get me some more complimentary Spinzels”. I say families and the disabled should only be able to board with us, providing they can keep up and not hold up the show, otherwise they get left behind!

(3:23PM ~ Somewhere over Indiana)

I like the moment after take-off, when the overhead seatbelt lights snap off and everyone takes a collective breathe of relief as they accept that we are not going to suddenly plunge to our deaths in a ball of flames, and begin to settle themselves more comfortably in their seats in preparation for the remainder of the flight. It’s in this moment of easiness that I’d love to shout out: “Look! Osama bin Laden is out on the wing!” After all, there is a small sign labeled “LATCH BIN CLOSED” above my head. Who’s that? Osama’s half brother or something? What a daunting premonition to be greeted at your airplane seat upon boarding.

While we’re on the topic of premonitions, what good are seatbelts on an airplane anyways? Are they really going to do any actual good when our plane slams into the earth at 300 mph from an altitude of 30,000 feet? I wonder how many former plane crash survivors there are out there saying: “Thank God I was wearing my seatbelt. It could have turned out much worse!” Personally, in the event of an airline tragedy, I would like to feel unencumbered so that I can remain free to run up and down the aisles in a panic screaming: “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” like the Harbinger of Death himself. Stewardesses will be chasing me down after the mere slightest bit of turbulence: “Fuck off! Who are you, Elmer the Safety Elephant? Seatbelts aren’t going to save me now!”


Most people on board are reading books about George W. Bush, John Kerry, Bill Clinton, the Iraqi War, Desert Storm, the California Recall, the upcoming election, etc. Just about everybody is working their way through a Bible-thick sized book with such seriously fascinating light reading titles as ‘Unfit for Command’ or ‘Plan of Attack’. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little self-conscious about the copy of ‘Relix’ magazine that I am leafing through. I can just hear the stifled accusations course throughout the cabin: “Oh, look honey! There’s a subversive hippie sitting across from me. I wonder if he’s a mule in our ongoing War on Drugs?”

Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport; Dallas, TX


After landing, it instantly sounds like we’re teleporting into a video arcade as everyone powers up their dormant cellular phones, and the mechanical boops, beeps, bells, whistles, and 70’s sitcom intro’s echo throughout the planes cabin while everyone checks their precious voicemail.


And here is where the first stage of my journey ends. If I manage to survive the next seven days here in the Lone Star State, I’m sure I will be sitting somewhere on this very same tarmac recording my impressions on the Great state of Texas. Either that, or I will be hightailing it across the runway on foot at light-speed trying to elude an organized lynching party from publicly executing me as a Right Wing Liberal Communist.

(To be continued...)

* In fact, recent studies now show that 2 out of 6 leading professional Terrorists actually prefer and recommend steel toe shoes or boots over crocheting hooks.

** In fact, the people in the back of the planes cabin never received their complimentary onboard cocktails due to time constraints. The incident almost sparked off an entire onboard mutiny of the cheap seat passengers

*** They should really issue complimentary packets of Vaseline instead of salted nuts, or at least best utilize space and efficiently by letting me tie around me the two teeny Oriental women sitting in front of me as a seatbelt.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Moving Madness

(On the anniversary of my first year in my first bachelor apartment, I have uncovered and rewritten the notes from my journal from that particular weekend)

(Sept.01, 2003)

Moving apartments sucks. I am excited to move into my first bachelor apartment of course, but the process blows donkeys for quarters. Soon I can look forward to crapping with the bathroom door open, frying up bacon naked, and lighting my farts with a barbeque lighter, but first I have to survive the actual “move” itself.

I am still trying to figure out how I ended up with all this stuff stored and hidden in my room. I must be some sort of human packrat; squirreling away obtuse random giggits, gadgets, doohickies, doodads, gizmos, and random whatchamafuckits like some sort of demented hamster beast. I am currently trying to stuff the entire contents of my old apartment of three years into a dozen cardboard boxes lifted from the dumpster behind the local Avondale. All those wasted hours spent in University stoned on my couch, playing Tetrus on my roommates Nintendo Gameboy have not prepared me as well as I would have hoped for daunting task. So far, the process involves grabbing armfuls of collective shit from the shelves and counter surfaces and dumping them into the box and then carefully arranging the items with the sole of my foot with a delicate stomping action. The next step I am considering is to just slash and burn it all into fine ash and scoop it into a mason jar for easy transporting.

There are things in my old apartment that have been lurking in mysterious shadows behind cabinets and shelves crudely manufactured out of discarded milk crates for years, now they are being exposed like some kind of rare endangered species in a diminishing landscape. Dust bunnies as big as rhinos are now beginning to roam the hardwood floors as if they were actually stocking real prey. I am using a bullwhip and wooden chair to tame these mutant dust bunnies and keep them attacking and eating the cat.

The biggest burden of moving apartments is how to safely and secretly conceal your private porno collection from being discovered in transition between apartment complexes by one of the unfortunate volunteers that you’ve invited into your chaotic home to sift through all your personal belongings and cohorted into assisting you into moving across the city in return for few cold beers and an emergency truss. It is Murphy’s Law of Moving that dictates that your friends will inevitably stumble across your dog-eared copies of ‘Naughty Nurses with Big Guns’ and ‘Juicy Jugs Quarterly’ magazines no matter how much duct tape and “PERSONAL PRIVATE PROPERTY” signs you label and wrap around your secret shoebox smut stash with.

(Sept. 02, 2003)

“Operation: Trading Places” has been successfully accomplished over the Labor Day holiday weekend with only two minor glitches: 1) I can’t find my weed, and 2) I still don’t have a key for the apartment or know how to set the security alarm. And even if I did have a key, i'd still be afraid to set the alarm for fear that the cat will trigger all the bells and whistles and I’ll get home from work to a circus of media hounds and emergency vehicles. If there is so much as a single flashing light when I round the corner of my new street my heart will probably spontaneously combust. Hell, even a kid waving a Snoopy flashlight would probably have me defecating myself right then and there in the street. And that’s NO WAY to be introduced to the neighbors! “Hi, my name is Terry. I’m your new neighbor. By chance, do you have any extra toilet paper?”

Day One after the move has been spent doing the obligatory ‘New Apartment Mambo’: searching out wall sockets, burning yourself in the shower, loosing the toilet paper, discovering daddy’s shameful family secret in the form of a deck of 70’s Chippendale playing cards in the bottom drawer of his bureau. The thought of my father locked in his office spanking one out to Tom Wopat in an banana hammock is simply too much to bear!

Now that I have wasted enough time on the couch watching artsy Home Renovation programs on television, my expectations for my first bachelor apartment are high and I have sifted through and unpacked everything away, or ditched it to the curbside altogether to cut loose the excess fat from my dangerously obese and burdened life. I purged myself of all Dear John letters, Immigration refusals, unopened University texts, bad poetry, failed essays, unflattering photos, souvenir pamphlets, tacky artwork, and zillions of cheap, tarnished, broken-clasped necklaces and snapped wristbands. I am now considering where everything should go. I have channeled the energy and creative inspiration of the flamboyantly gay elderly Interior Decorator (I have even donned a flashy Hawaiian shirt for the process) and I am beginning to look at the task of decorating, as a graduate art student would look at his final Installation Art piece. The cat however, is looking at it like Kim Mitchell’s Rocklandwonderland what with all the new nooks and crannies to explore.

It is fun and invigorating to sort out and organize all the items and possessions of my life, and decide on the perfect place for display in the apartment layout. So, to a single mature desperate male such as myself, everything is carefully scrutinized and positioned for the ultimate effectiveness and maximum potential for getting me laid. “I wonder if by placing my grandmothers antique porcelain tea set on the refurbished wicker table in the living room will increase my chances of receiving oral sex from a visiting member of the opposite sex as opposed to placing it as a centerpiece on the dining table in the kitchen?”, or “If I was a wanton nubile sex goddess considering carnal relations, would I be more inclined to be less-inhibited and sexually promiscuous if the authentic Star Trek collective plates are showcased in the dining room cabinet, or the living room? Bookcase?”, or even “Would I feel more inclined to give up the goods on a first date if he has attempted to decorate his bathroom with seashells and scented candles, as opposed to decorating with empty discarded toilet paper rolls and an old Hooters calendar from 1998?”. It’s the intrinsic driving thought processes behind every heterosexual male when dealing with home interior design I’m sure. All decorating efforts are creative extensions of our penis and our desires for animalistic sex. It’s what drives our nesting and decorating instincts. Even Darwin himself was guilty of displaying his dusty travelogues and behavioral science textbooks so to maximize his chances of getting some loose primitive booty.

There was a brief few minutes of extreme panic and anxiety however, when I managed to loose the cat altogether for about 10-15 heart-stopping minutes. I must have gone from Zero-to-Panic in under 30 nano-seconds. I was ready to go to the printers with posters, call in the Special Forces Task Unit, and organize neighborhood search parties to begin combing the area. In my poor drug-addled, I had envisioned that Miso had already hatched a Great Escape-style master getaway plot and had prepared his disguise, forged fake documents and a passport, and was swiftly making his way into the Woodland Avenue kitty underground network led by some French cat in a beret through the sewer pipes. Fortunately, he turned up in the linen cupboard under the bathtub enjoying a peaceful nap. But not before I had revealed myself to the neighborhood tough guy in my underwear as some nancy-ass with a cat named after a Japanese soup. “What kind of name is that for a friggin’ cat?”

Friday, September 10, 2004

Stairway vs. Freebird

I would like to attempt to debunk a popular belief in the annals of Rock Mythology. I think it is most commonly believed that Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ is Rock and Roll's most requested song of all time, as voted on by just about every FM radio listener in the past 30 years. From High School dances to radio request broadcasts, it has just become an accepted fact that this schmaltzy eight minute long power ballad has given rise to more pubescent boners than Rebecca DeMornay.

There is a strong case supporting ‘Stairway to Heaven’ as the most requested Rock song ever. Inevitably, every teenage boy has requested this rock odyssey at least a zillion times at High School dances and Youth Club soirees for the guaranteed opportunity to rub their raging hard-on’s into the bellies of the objects of their school boy affections, for almost an entire 10 minutes undisturbed. It also promises a chance to prove to their prospective sweethearts what a great crooner they are by singing along to the entire song into the ear of the poor female trapped in their clutches.

This also lends to the fact that all females actually abhor this song as they inevitably end up mauled and serenaded by Peter Pimplepuss from Biology class who suspiciously smells like formaldehyde and stuccos the inside of his locker with his collected belly button lint. It’s no wonder they all disappear together in a gaggle into the Girls bathroom immediately afterwards when the song is over as they probably feel the incredible need to scrub themselves down with disinfectant and a steel Brillo Pad and take hits off the communal crack pipe in order to erase the whole sordid memory of this recent ordeal from their heads altogether, forever.

But regardless, the influx of horny male machismo prevails and propels ‘Stairway to Heaven’ into the coveted #1 slot in the Most Requested Rock Song and automatically into mythical status. It is my claim however, that contrary to popular belief, ‘Stairway to Heaven’ is not all the all-time Most Requested Rock Song. But instead, those lofty laurels in fact rightfully belong to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s classic Southern shit-kicker power ballad ‘Freebird’; the original drunken rebel-rousers Call-to-Arms.

What it may lack in actual urgent dance and radio call-in pleas, ‘Freebird’ makes up for in obnoxious inebriated shout-outs at any genuine performance or presentation before a live audience. I am willing to wager that it is a universal law of nature that governs and guarantees that ‘Freebird’ will be hollered out, at least once, any place where more than a dozen people have conspicuously gathered. I even bet that some drunken tuxedoed knob will eventually holler out “FREEBIRD!” at a concert performance by the London Philharmonic Orchestra during their brief segue from Braham’s ‘Lullaby’ into Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring’ from the theater’s Martini Bar in the back. I further bet that even street mimes at one time or another have had boisterous observers request this token salute during their vigorous performing of ‘Feeding Peanuts to an Elephant’ in the public park. It’s just natural law. It has to be done!

If nobody else, some drunk who has spent the entire show passed out wrapped around the toilet bowl in the Men’s bathroom in a puddle of his own vomit will regain consciousness and sober up just long enough to scream out “FREEBIRD!” just as the band begins to wind down for a break before the encore. He may not even know hos own name at this point, but he has enough common sense to request the token 'Freebird'. It’s as inevitable as the moons gravitational pull affecting the Earths tides, or as certain as the traumatic aftermath of Captain Hook high-fiving Edward Scissorhands during a vigorous game of beach volleyball.

In fact, I immediately suspect that Armageddon was upon us and that I was actually playing witness to one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse if ever a complete concert was to successfully conclude without the mandatory token ‘Freebird’ request being shouted out from the Peanut Gallery.

It’d be the ultimate Classic Rock Request Grudge Match: “Stairway vs. Freebird”. The juvenile boner anthem takes on the original hellions swan song.

Personally, both songs give me bowel movements that feel like they have been squeezed through a pastry bag, and I would be able to die a very fulfilled individual without regret if I were never to hear either of these Redneck paean’s again. I would rather phone in a request for Kim Mitchell’s ‘Patio Lanterns’ as performed by those annoying caroling dogs; the same ones that have you driving sharpened candy canes into your eardrums each Christmas Season whenever you turn on the AM radio.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

"Fancy a nice cup of piss, luv?"

Quick! Stop the presses! The official word is in from Bangkok that drinking urine can eliminate sinus trouble, turn gray hair black, reduce dandruff, and even cure cancer. So throw out your passé bottles of multi-vitamins and Royal Jelly and quit stocking up on those tins of Campbell’s chicken soup from the discount bin at the local Supermarket, the ‘Traditional and Alternative Medicine Development Center’ in Thailand has attested, based on a recent survey of local Buddhist practitioners, that consuming a cup of urine a day will work wonders on your overall health and help slow the natural aging process. Oh, goodie!

What a unique slant on the old “An apple a day…” yarn that we all practiced and believed in as children. Little did we know, that we should have been chugging back our own piss in order to keep the doctor away instead. Silly us!

Members of the Santi Asoke, a strict indigenous Buddhist movement believed to have thousands participating this in unorthodox piss-sipping practice, were surveyed and indicated that they have learned from ancient Buddhist manuscripts dating back over 2,500 years, that drinking urine improved their health. Now here’s a nice cultural fad being handed down from our learned Eastern neighbors that’s just now beginning to see the light of day. They have even gone so far to claim that 87% of professed urine drinkers confirmed that it had a “head-to-toe” benefit for their health. Pardon? I already know where it comes from, thank you very much, but that doesn’t automatically make me feel better for having drank it straight from the tap.

Imagine being a member of that particular Thai monastery. A bunch of balding monks dressed in yellow saris and all sipping urine from their alms bowls. I’m sure they, as well as all the trendy wannabe spiritualists, will be flocking to the downtown Bangkok Tea Parlor’s to sample the much acclaimed urine quick cures. “Might I suggest Terry-san, that you wash down your spicy Pad-Thai with a nice steaming cup of delicious blueberry flavored urine?” “Sure thing, just hold the cream please and heavy on the sugar.” That’s definitely one café I don’t want to visit!

I wonder what the fashionable way to consume one’s urine is exactly? Do they drink it like a tea, or right from the hose for those who Buddha blessed enough to be able to do so. Maybe they blend it all up with fruits and ice and make it up into some sort of uber-healthy Urine Smoothie? There’s an ominous foreshadowing of things to come fro the menu boards at Tim Horton’s. “Would you like milk and sugar in that, or can I just piss in it for you?” Maybe this will spark a rebirth of the Orange Julius franchise by offering a popular drink alternative to accompany their famous ‘Cheese Whistledogs’?

Who in their right mind would ever be so vain and so overly sensitive about their graying hair and wrinkles that they would even remotely entertain the idea of slamming back the urine shooters like a pledging fraternity member? I can foresee this becoming the popular trend among spiritual New Age neophytes who would happily begin chowing down on ripe turds laid out on hot dog buns if they were ever informed that it would cleanse their aura’s. I’m sure ‘Oil of Olay’ is quaking at the prospect of loosing stock value to ‘Pai-Mei’s Miracle Pee Formula’ as a quick fix to counter the natural aging process.

This has to be a joke, right? Surely, all these supposed Thai Buddhist monks are actually having a giggle at our expense after purposely leaking false medical practices to their naïve, copycat Western counterparts. “Oh my God, look Mook Choo Cow! They’re DRINKING it! They’re actually drinking their own piss just because we said so! What dumbasses!” What are we, like Mikey from the Life Cereal commercials at the global breakfast table or something? "Give it to Mikey, he'll drink ANYTHING!" wonder what these holy gurus will have in store for us next? They’ll probably claim that sodomizing ourselves cures baldness, or smoking toe-jam will add 10 years to life expectancy and give your skin a healthy glow. I can’t wait to see the prepared lunches of the gullible hippie-dippies in the cafeteria in the future: eating their fecal salads with sperm dressing, and drinking warm piss from a thermos. That’s sure some cost for being healthy and looking good, considering that nobody will probably go within 20 feet of them in pure disgust, despite how healthy and gorgeous they are. If I so much as even suspect that urine has EVER crossed over the lips of a prospective mate, she’s as good as day old Tiger Prawns. I’d rather date a girl who has a hairstyle similar to that of Ron Howard, than date a hot runway model who has urine breath. Call me old fashioned.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Hurricane Fever

I have managed to survive through another long Labor Day holiday weekend unscathed. Albeit, my usual Labor Day routine had been slightly altered from my holiday norm, but the same Labor Day mission of accomplished in that absolutely nothing was accomplished. The only real change in the whole bizarre was that all my television programs were preempted by constant update’s from this fucking Hurricane Frances*.

Normally, I sit on my couch like a caged gorilla watching Spaghetti Westerns and exerting no more stress on myself other than that needed than to refresh my bowl of Corn Chips and to crack another cold brewskie. But this year took on a more ominous nature with the constant bombardment of the Hurricane Frances updates and development broadcasts as Frances unleashes its fury on the Florida coastline. Geez, you’d think that Anti-Christ himself lived in St. Augustine the way the hurricanes keep punishing this small eastern coastal town and the looks on the faces of the on-location weather reporters**.

By the way, while I’m on the topic, why do all weather reporters feel inclined to broadcast their weather updates from the middle of the storm itself when obviously it is the last place they should be in order to be safe and protected from the very madness that they are reporting on in the first place? Do they think the fact that we can see a flapping neon rain slicker, beads of driving rain on the camera lenses, and the token wind-lashed palm tree bent over at a right angle in the background validates for us viewers that there REALLY is a hurricane running rampant across the Florida state? It’s the coup d’etat of hurricane journalism; the meteorologist’s money shot if you will. I guess the networks feel that each hurricane update must include the reporter being in waist deep floodwater and with a cow flying by overhead into live downed power lined to have any broadcasting worth. Now, THAT’S dedication!

Myself, I’d be broadcasting from an underground bunker or boarded up hotel room being filming up against a window boarded up with plywood in my day old boxers and Hawaiian shirt and swigging from a margarita glass. I’m no hero.

“This is Terry Nash reporting live from St. Augustine, Florida where Hurricane Frances is wrecking havoc across the coastline destroying homes and public property. We understand that there are extremely high winds and massive rainfalls all over the state, except that we are currently situated in a community fallout shelter at the moment and are unable to verify that or actually to see any of it. In related news, I successfully managed a Triple Word Score this afternoon in the current Scrabble Round Robin being played here until the Frances is over.”

Call it “Gonzo Weather Journalism”.

I know I’m taking this too seriously, but honestly…what the fuck do I care? I live in Canada. Why would I be interested in hurricane updates every 15 minutes on the hour? For me, it’s just an unwelcome distraction on the World Cup hockey tournament. I never asked to be an expert on the atmospheric and meteorological anomalies currently taking place in the mid-south Atlantic regions. By now, after being force-fed so many digital weather satellite displays and wind charts that I’ve probably achieved a correspondence degree from Florida Tech through osmosis. I spent at least 2 hours zoning out and allowing myself to be drawn into the spinning vortex’s of the swirling weather patterns behind the reporting weatherman as if I was being wisked away inside the funnel of a tornado. “Auntie Em! Auntie Em!” When did the weather become so trippy? I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Wicked Witch of the East to go sailing past my window on a broomstick.

I really don’t give a flying fuck about Hurricane Frances to be honest. “Yeah, yeah, yeah…high winds, heavy rainfall. Let’s get back to Jerry Springer before I miss the Lobster Twins confronting the Lesbian Transexual Midget!”

* Or Hurricane Charlie, or Hurricane Ivan, or Peaches, or Snoop Dogg, or whatever it is that’s next on the list of whatever it is that the NOAA, National Weather Service, use to name their future Hurricanes.

** Otherwise, God is punishing the elderly retiree’s and Disney character sex predators.

Monday, September 06, 2004

"Casuistry: The Art of Spanking a Raccoon"

I have been recently outraged when I learned earlier this week that this years Toronto Film Festival will be including a 90 minute documentary film entitled “Casuistry: The Art of Killing a Cat” despite an outcry from animal rights activists. The film explores the torture and death in May 2001 of a stray cat named Kensington by renegade “film makers” * Jesse Power, Anthony Wennekers, and Matthew Kaczorowski, all in their early 20’s.

The three videotaped the incident in which the poor beast was tortured, disemboweled, and skinned alive with knives and an assortment of power and dental tools in a 15 minute proceeding that would make even the most desensitized Nazi doctor cringe in disgust. The video, in true stylish terrorist fashion, was beheaded at the end of the video in what would sadly become the most humane moment of this grizzly debacle since it finally ended the wretched beasts torment once and for all.

The defense presented that the video was made for artistic purposes as a project showing that it was hypocritical for society to kill some animals for meat, but not others. What the fuck? Is this the best the defense can come up with? I would say that there is a huge difference** between the systematic raising and debatably humane slaughter of cows and chickens for human consumption to tacking a live cat to a wall with a buck knife and dismembering it. When did “sick fuck” become misconstrued as “artist”? What then can’t you do in the name of “art”? If this is to be considered as “art”, then I say let’s make a real statement and film these film student wannabe’s getting sodomized by a herd of bull elephants and then release the footage to the public. We’ll see who wants to debate “artistic integrity” then! Lets rip their ears off with a pair of pliers and gouge out their eyeballs with a dental pick. Hell, it’ll be every much at artful as the kitty snuff film these jackasses created. But why stop here? Maybe we should film other taboo artistic statements, like fisting baby chipmunks or lighting puppies on fire. Shit, we’ll win an Oscar for sure!

Jesse Power, during his court appeal, even went so far as to attempt to explain away his actions as expressing a “form of giving thanks”. GIVING THANKS? What kind of sick twisted fuck are we dealing with here? I bet the cat was absolutely ecstatic with appreciation over what was occurring to him at the time: “All I ever wanted was a little milk, maybe a little tuna. But these nice, compassionate boys instead disemboweled me with power tools and skinned me alive. Thanks guys! Now I have my 15 minutes of fame!”

Power, a 22 year old student at the Ontario College of Art underwent a complete psychological evaluation during his court appeal and was diagnosed as “rejection-sensitive” and an attention seeker, prone to “look-at-me” behavior. Sure, what better way to make a positive and lasting impression by your peers, and guarantee your full acceptance by the cool crowd than to video yourself needlessly torturing one of God’s innocent creatures? That’ll sure win you the respect and admiration by the trunk full, I’m sure. Who is he trying to impress anyway? Jeffrey Dahmer? “Sure, he’s sane. Let’s let him join our Club.”

These butchers were only sentenced back in 2001 to 18 months house arrest and 90 days in custody on the weekends. Pardon? Eighteen months of being forced to stay home and watch Montel Williams on television? That’s not justice! I say this was much too lenient a sentence. I’m all for stringing them up by the balls with piano wire and publicly flogging them with cat-o-nine-tails, being sure to capture it all on film in an artistic attempt to show the hypocrisy of punishing some murderers, but not others.

Of course, as I write this I am guilty in participating in an act of animal cruelty of my own. So who am I to judge I guess? I stayed awake all night in order to catch the raiding raccoon that keeps vandalizing my back porch garden. Once his thieving ass came snooping around again, I surprised him by cornering him and proceeding to give his furry masked ass a severe spanking with a bamboo garden pole as he stumble-fucked his way back over the porch fence from whence he came. My only mistake was not catching the whole naughty coon spanking on film for the benefit of showing it at the Toronto Film Festival. “Casuistry: The Art of Spanking a Raccoon”. A film that even Alan Smithee can be proud of!

I’m an artist and don’t even know it!

* And I use this term loosely, as I would “sane” or “well-adjusted”.

** Like that of comparing apples to vintage sports cars.

Per-Per-View Cesspool

I had the unfortunately displeasure the other evening to find myself stuck partaking in and indulging in the typical male culture involving ‘Pay-Per-View Wrestling Extravaganza’s’: Light beer, Buffalo Wings, two grapplers in sparkly tights engaging in borderline homoerotic activities inside a squared ring, and ogling the waitresses ass as she gathers up empty bottles and baskets of discarded wing bones from the tables in between body slams and bear hugs.

Basically at it’s most simplified and fundamental level, wrestling is two sweaty men with foreheads that you could show home movies on, locked in combat. Take away the fancy lighting, the high-tech pyrotechnics, the costumes, the entrance music, and the in between match interviews, and essentially you have two Neolithic hominids fighting over a discarded Brontosaur bone. Wrestling is Darwinism in reverse. Any way you slice it, it’s still grown men in colorful tights doing things to one another that in any other social setting would be immediately deemed inappropriate. It would not be considered ‘Sports Entertainment’ if say, these same two sweaty Neanderthals were grappling, groping, and fondling one another at a dorm party would it? No. They would instead be considered prime candidates for ‘Campus Queen’s of the Year’.

Even wrestling fans are from the lowest rungs of the Evolutionary ladder, looking like they just crawled out of the swamp for an Oak Ridge Boys concert. They can often even make Ogre from ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ seem like Steven Hawking in comparison. I’ll wager that the average IQ level in a room full of wrestling fanatics during any one of the big ‘Pay-Per-View’ wrestling events would be equal to the average shoe size of the same roomful of fans. You can actually feel yourself slipping further down the Evolutionary Scale with every passing minute you spent in the near vicinity of these people until you’re “Woohoo-ing” like a horny Howler Monkey in the throws of monkey passion over the big ‘Evening Gown Match’ on the big screen TV without shame or apology.

It’s a Soap Opera for the mentally deficient retards. A quick synapses of the latest ‘Wrestlemania’ Mega-card includes such bizarre incidents and catch terms that only the most avid in-the-know wrestling fan like “Japanese Buzzsaw”, “Stink Face”, “Girls Shaving Girls”, and some dude in shiney red spandex wear that makes him look like some adult porno version of the Flash superhero. It all reads like uber-kinky menu options to rival any Amsterdam ‘Red Light District’ billboard of carnal delights; something that would definitely require a credit card anyways.

The real Freakshow is what goes on in the men’s bathroom between matches when the full brunt of suicide wings and draft beer rears it’s ugly head and instantly transforms the restroom into the ‘Ground Zero of Gassy Assholes’.

Becoming Life's Shortstop

When one first hears the word “coach”, they automatically picture in their minds gruff and course Mike Ditkas type characters, spitting sunflower seeds out the side of their mouths like a human Gatling gun and screaming obscenities at their players with all the creative gratuitousness of a drunken Merchant Marine. But when it comes to improving the quality and direction of your own life, who would you turn to for guidance and to coach you through the many traps and pitfalls in this game of life? Who helps you stop riding the pines and gets your ass back into the game fielding life’s line drives with the confidence and focus of an all-star shortstop? Your “Life Coach”, that’s who! Cue the John Fogerty; pass the Peanuts.

Life Coaches teach you that in order to succeed you first have to fail…many times in fact. They help you learn to take the good, to take the bad, to take them both and there you have, the Facts of Life (the Facts of Life). Basically, they are the Mrs. Garrett figure to your Tootie, except that they probably don’t sell Oingo-Boingo records over the counter at a knick-knack shop called ‘Over Our Heads’ besides providing you with the secrets to success, and you probably don’t wear roller-skates while attending your scheduled coaching sessions.

When I first considered consulting a Life Coach in an effort to better deal with the shortcomings and inadequacies that I have been currently experiencing in my life, I had first imagined a German Freud-esque kind of doctor smoking a corncob pipe, grabbing my nuts and having me cough, or an uber-flakey gypsy type woman with bells on her shoes, silk scarves, and strumming a copper singing bowl while consulting an astrological calendar. At the very least, someone who has named their pets after famous dead 60’s rock stars. But these preconcieved stereotypes couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Knowing more about the process of Life Coaching now and realizing the benefits that it will hopefully play in my life, I am no longer worried that I am going to ring thousands of dollars up having my Life Coach answer such mundane calculated riddles like “What kind of breakfast cereal should I have this morning?” or “What color socks should I wear to accessorize with my brown corduroy pants?” but instead will have a new positive charge on my ordinary days and be able to finally take the reins of my professional, romantic, and personal domains of my life.

However dear readers, there is also this little gremlin in the back of my head that is just aching to be acknowledged. He’s the reason why you probably even venture to this particular Blogsite in the first place, right? And he seems to be indicating to me what kind of a great workday this must be being a Life Coach. It would be kind of fun to have the opportunity to have some fun with the helpless rubes all desperately seeking solutions to their persisting problems. In this bizarre self-absorbed aspect, I would make an excellent Life Coach.

Rube: “Mr. Nash, I am concerned that I have gotten myself in a rut at work and my professional career is going nowhere.”
Me: “Perhaps you need to shake things up a bit. I suggest going into work tomorrow wearing nothing but rubber boots and a Superman cape and goose-step around the office playing ‘We Got the Funk;’ on a tuba.”

All advise and encouragement would be given with brutal honesty.

Rube: “Mr. Nash, I’m concerned that I am getting fat and I would like to make serious improvements to my Health.”
Me: “Then put down the Double-Dip donut, meathead. Then run a marathon.”

What a different world we would live in today if the disgruntled world leaders of history were to have contacted a Life Coach before making those hasty rash decisions that would forever alter the course of history. Imagine if Osama bin Laden had only called a Life Coach before 9/11 to discuss his concern and lingering frustration regarding the Western Democratic Infidel before embarking on his World Trade Center crusade?

Me: “I see. I can sense your frustration Mr. bin Laden, have you considered taking up a new hobby to help outwardly express yourself? Like golf, or model trains? That way you could work out your pent-up anxiety against the Democratic Pigs by painting little George Bush faces on your golf balls before teeing them off into the scorched-earth wastelands of countryside. Or maybe you could create beautiful Botanical Gardens at the site of the destroyed Budda ruins at Bamiyan or something else a little more pleasant?”

Think about the global repercussions that could have been adverted if Adolph Hitler has first consulted with his Life Coach before drawing up the battle blueprints for a two-front war and the mass extermination of an entire ethnic race. Imagine taking that call:

Adolph Hitler: “Yeah, hi. This is Adolph Hitler, you can all me Alfy. Anyways, I’m thinking if initiating a supreme Arian Nation and leading them towards World Domination and the eventual extermination of all Semite and mixed race minorities. This house painting gig just isn’t satisfying lately.”
Me: “Hi, Alfy. Have you considered writing by any chance? You have, eh? Well, how about a high vitamin anf protein diet. It sounds like your electrolytes may be out of wack.”

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Hillbilly Weddun

(This was NOT written about any particular co-worker or aquaintance of mine. Instead, it is merely a humorous concept that dawned on me recently based on previous experiences and a sick sense of humor.)

A member of my work team is handing out wedding invitations to fellow co-workers. Now there’s a sideshow party that has absolutely no chance of ever having me signed in on the guest roster. Knowing this particular team member as I do, I am imagining it would be similar to a Munster Family Reunion with the types of people in attendance that you would expect to find on any episode of ‘Cheaters’. During the reception * festivities, I wouldn’t know whether to make small talk or toss spare change.

Just imagine the festivities. Their first kiss would undeniably resemble two catfish going after the same piece of corn. The first dance would be something to be aired on the Wildlife Network: “And now, the courting ritual of the North American Trailer Park Polecat”. The toast would no doubt be made over paper cups of tasteless orange McDonald’s drink from the reception “Open Barn”.

Why would you even consider inviting co-workers to your wedding anyways? Is your family and friend base so limited that you have to invite the person who has the misfortune of slaving beside you each day at your place of employment? You’d think you would want to leave this particular reminder of your ordinary pathetic everyday existence behind you on this, the first day of the rest of happy life together with your new bride. If your social life is this limited then instead of passing out invitations to your wedding, you should be handing out invitations to your public suicide. Wouldn’t that make for an interesting invitation read? “Mr. John Q. Biggletits and Ms. Alotta Cheesebeaver cordially invite you, on this most splendid of occasions, to our blessed public offing as we end our lives together in holy matrimony. Your presence is requested to help us celebrate this joyous occasion. BYOC (Bring your Own Cyanide).”

I would rather subject myself to a ritual chain stomping at the hands of Outlaw bikers at my wedding than share it the boobs who work around me. I bet spending my big day with rabid hyenas would be more enjoyable than spending it with immigrant worker Mohammed Omar who can utter maybe three words of coherent English and poor college dropout Johnny Boogermunch who would be lost trying to accessorize his cumerbund with his purple nail polish.

Furthermore, why the fuck is he handing them out as opposed to mailing them out as per normal accepted wedding tradition? Is it just to see the look in the eyes of the recipient as you hand them their invite as they twist and squirm worms in a heavy rainfall as they try to instantly come up with an excuse over why they will have to regrettably miss the festivities; their eyes rolling back into their heads like they were trying to calculate the 15% gratuity at a four-star restaurant. They must be a complete sadist to enjoy inflicting that kind of mental punishment on another living creature and then watching them suffer. It must be like watching a salmon flop around helplessly on a sandy beach slowly suffocating. “Oh…thanks. I, ummm…I, ahhh…oh, I have to…OH! I have my Quilting and Basket-weaving class at the community college that night. DARN! Wish I could make it though.” Poor bastard.

* Where this actual wedding reception would be held opens up a whole realm of possibility: the Banquet Room at ‘Vinnie’s Rock n’ Bowl’, or the Picnic Pavilion at ‘Crazy Curley’s Spud’s n’ Chicken’.