Tsunami Insanity (Part II)

Reports are beginning to be received from World Relief and International Aid organizations working on location in Sri Lanka, Sumatra, Indonesia, Thailand, India, and other affected disaster areas that well-intended donations for victims of the December tsunami are becoming increasingly inappropriate. Relief workers are now being distracted and bogged down by huge shipments of, for example, ski jackets, Viagara, moisturizing gel, sweaters, women’s dress shoes, Arctic-weather tents and thong underwear of all things!

WTF are some people thinking exactly? It would appear now that many businesses are using the charitable collections of food and goods for the tsunami survivors as an excuse to get rid of all the surplus crap still taking up space in their warehouses after the last "Season Blow-Out Spectacular" sale, like they were instead donating to some global Goodwill or Salvation Army, instead of bona fide relief charities.

What a curious image that brings to my mind: poor, destitute Mohammed el Higi-Hagi, dressed only in an expensive, yet impractical Gortex ski jacket and purple thong, and all the while sporting an immense raging hard-on, is trying to rebuild his destroyed beach shack by using the heel of a woman’s stiletto dress shoe to hammer in the nails. Christ, at this rate and with these practical provisions that have been supplied, he’ll either still be working on his new shack well into the next millennium, or he will have perished from heat stroke after taking a brief break to nap in his new Arctic-weather tent in the 100-degree sun!

Also, while I’m on the topic of practicality, what the fuck was the point of sending moisturizing gel do you think? Did 'Oil of Olay' think that these poor bastards haven’t experienced enough moisture in their lives already lately? I severely doubt under the circumstances that there are any Banda Aceh survivors right now walking through debris complaining about their dry, chapped skin! Waterproof barrier protection or sealant, maybe…but moisturizing gel? What kind of a complete choad thought that by sending shitloads mositurizing gel they would be in small way supporting the stricken tsunami survivors with valuable much-needed assistance? This person deserves to be gang-whipped by a team of disgruntled lion tamers.

Likewise, crucial medicines are in short supply, but Viagara, Valium, anti-depressants, and other drugs with labels that cannot either be read or deciphered by local doctors continue to arrive by the planeful. Relief Warehouses are beginning to look like Hunter S. Thompson's walk-in medicine chest. The Valium and anti-depressants I can understand, sure. Shit, they DID just survive a catastrophic natural disaster and managed to loose just about everything they had in the world after all, so yeah, a little Valium or anti-depressants may come in handy and may not be an altogether inappropriate thing. Lord knows I would want to be dosed out of my gourd in the event of such intense tragedy too, so that I would just be able to simply carry on as need-be with a complacent glazed look in my eye and warm drool dribbling out the corners of my mouth. But what the fuck is the intended purpose of the Viagara exactly*? Was this intended to assist the surviving men in being able to repopulate the devastated disaster areas? Hey, I doubt that the stricken survivors are going to be very horny at this point and won't be considering any swinger orgies or swap parties in the near future any time soon! I mean, how horny would you feel if everything you owned in the world was still "hanging ten" on the crest of a wave somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean? Maybe the Viagara was intended to be issued in order to provide more immediately accessible floatation devices lest another tsunami should make another untimely appearance on the Indian Ocean coastlines. I'd say that your chances of survival would be significantly improved if you had a bouyant engorged penis the size of Manhattan to float around on, wouldn't you?

* Besides, I think there are enough stiff peckers laying around aready as it is!

Academy Award Pre-thoughts:

In a few minutes, the whole madness that is the 2005 Academy Awards will commence, and all remaining bastions of tolerable educational television will be surrendered to this ceremonial Hollywood Wack-a-thon. There will be no avoiding it for the next 24 hours, the Oscars are taking over the airwaves.

Interestingly this year, I can honestly say that not only have I not actually seen any of them but I haven’t even heard of any of them either. I am completely ignorant of all entries and nominations equally across the board. In some cases, I may recognize a familiar big actor or actress’s name, but I still haven’t a solitary clue as to what they were nominated for. That makes me about as removed from the whole Academy Award proceedings as a blind man at a Mime Festival.

So just for kicks, lets take a look at what’s on the menu for this evenings Oscar festivities, and then I can

SIDEWAYS ~ probably the most underrated of albums released by forgotten Canadian rockers ‘Men Without Hats’. I have no idea what the movie could possibly be about, but I’m definitely going to be digging this cassette tape out from under the bed later on!

“Had a dream where everybody looked like someone else,
the farthest I could get from was the closest to myself.
Tonight I'll dream tomorrow's going to be that better day
and in the morning I'll remember you, sideways.
Sideways”

“PLAY SAFETY DANCE!”

MILLION DOLLAR BABY ~ wait, is this the next sequel in the Babe the Pig movie series? What’s that crazy pig done this time in order to get nominated for 'Best Picture' again? Moved to Beverley Hills with Arnold Ziffle?

THE AVIATOR ~ I do know already, in fact, that this movie stars Leonardo DiCaprio. So that automatically rules it out for any further serious consideration from me. Over my dead body will I ever acknowledge any film starring Leonardo DiCaprio as the leading role! How can anybody take this guy seriously? Gilbert should have left his retarded ass up in that tree a long time ago and saved us from the future evil that would later spawn. It's too bad Leo's ass didn't actually go down with the ship in Titanic.

FINDING NEVERLAND ~ they’re kidding us here, right? This has to be a joke! Has the likes of ‘Michael “Freakshow” Jackson managed to even infiltrate and affect the staunch Academy this year as well? From what I’ve heard of the things that go on at Neverland, the only thing that I am going to want to find in this movie is the nearest prosecuting attorney.

RAY ~ Ray who? Please tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with Ray Romano! For the love of God, please tell me that everyone does NOT in fact love Ray! I may have to spend the rest of the evening drilling holes into my skull to exorcize the demons if I have to sit through even 3 minutes of this whiney bastard waffling on to the Academy about his wife, kids, sports, and scratching his jewels in the morning. Hell, it’d be moments like that that would sway me to believe that Elvis was right to shoot at televisions.

So, whioch movie is going to win tonight? Who gives a shit! I couldn't give a rats ass at this point. I’m going to make a bowl of popcorn, turn off my brain, and get lost in a good J-Lo movie. By the time my tear ducts have dried up, and my senses return to normal, all this Academy Award nonsense will be all over and have passed for another year.

North China Barfet

Today, I agreed to meet my mother and two siblings for a sit down lunch. It has been the first time in months since we have seen or spoke to one another, much less be in the same building at the same time. Sounds like a perfectly plausible way to spend a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon, does it not? So at my mother’s suggestion we all met at the new ‘North China Buffet’ All-U-Can Eat restaurant.

What’s with people inviting me to All-U-Can Eat buffets lately? Does this provide them with some cheap form of entertainment at they watch on mystified as the ‘Man with the Bottomless Stomach’ sets to work at gorging himself ashamedly at the buffet counter? But I digress…

Upon arrival, I can’t help but notice that this new marvel of All-U-Can Oriental Cuisine is sandwiched directly between the local Goodwill used clothing store, and a No-Frills supermarket. Hows that for ambiance? It was a good thing that at that point, I immediately abandoned any notions of high expectations for our meal at the door, since they would inevitably have just come crashing down like the World Trade Center towers upon the first serving.

Judging by the hordes of quietly chewing patrons that occupied every square inch of this enormous restaurant, I have discovered where death goes on vacation. It’s like somebody unrolled out a shag carpet of senior citizens from the front door all the way to the back; where also happened to be seated. I swear, we almost needed a compass and map in order to simply find our way back to our table!

I also noticed from the buffet spread itself that the North Chinese have a very peculiar taste in cuisine. Among the standard Chinese menu staples of sweet & sour chicken balls, moo goo pork, spiced beef with almonds, and pan-fried noodles, there were also huge pans of strip bacon, Spanish omelettes, chocolate pudding, onion rings and French fries, mashed potatoes, barbeque wings, and other buffet options that didn’t exactly fit the nomral formulated “Chinese Food” mold.

To me, this was nothing more than an ordinary greasy spoon of enormous proportions disguising its low-value slop under the fancy moniker of “All-U-Can Eat Chinese Buffet” and then just raking in the pension dollars! I’d hate to see the kitchen in this place, with all the immigrant employees shackled to their kitchen prep stations with leg irons for the duration of their sixteen-hour work day at minimum wage is over.

Of course, this didn’t stop my mother from stepping in to help organize the staff. “Excuse me, can you bring me out some more ‘General Tao Chicken’ and ‘Stir-fried Twinkies a la Orange’?” Like the kitchen staff didn’t already have enough on their hands continually refilling the slop troughs for the plaque of welfare recipients still lined up to get in the door, mandibles twitching like anxious grasshoppers.

“Eh, wee-a need mo’ numba one, spicy beef & veget’abo, for the Dragon Woman. CHOP-CHOP!”

The Prophecy Pringle

Grab hold of your credit cards and liposuction hoses, folks, I have found the next miracle food product! Surely the gods have been working overtime lately and speaking volumes, but the recent half eaten grilled cheese sandwich that was auctioned off on Ebay for $1,000,000 before going on a celebrity tour across the nation because it was believed to bear an image that resembled the Virgin Mary, was only a mere road sign to other more important prophetic messages in mind.

I have found the next intended miracle food product send to us by divine forces through means of mass market consumerism. I have discovered THE PROPHECY PRINGLE!

Months ago, I purchased a tin of regular-flavored Pringles chips with new “Fun Facts” printed on each chip. I had figured at the time that the sale price of only $1.89 was a fair price to pay for a basis couch potato’s education while I chowed down on some high calorie monoglycerides in front of the tube. It was an innocent stoned impulse buy, how could I have known what lay inside waiting, or the urgency in which it needed to be discovered!

I has assumed my normal position on the couch last night in front of the boob tube, decided I craved something salty and fattening; and then there it was, outlined clearly in delicious oval dried potatoes and blue dye:

Q: In what area are most of the world’s tsunamis concentrated?
A: Indian Ocean.

If only I had opened this tin of “Fun Fact” Pringles sooner! The Manufacture Date on the tin of chips clearly indicated that this prophecy chip was made late in October of 2004, packaged, and shipped directly to the Proctor & Gamble distribution center in Toronto, Ontario, before ending up in my kitchen cupboard, where it sat for another two months after being purchased in early December; it’s grizzly proclamation unnoticed and unconsumed all the while.

Why did I wait so long to eat my inexpensive Pringles purchase? Clearly I had the “fever for the flavor of Pringles” at the time of its purchase…why didn’t I just eat the chips when I got home like I probably intended? How many lives could have been saved? Hundreds of thousands of deaths could have been avoided if I had only “popped the top” on that Pringles sooner! Here I had the means to reveal and alter the course of tragic history sitting in my cupboard along with my selection of Jiff peanut butter varieties, pyramids of ‘Cup o Needles’, and a Jumbo box of Corn Pops cereal, and I decide to go and develop a taste for raw carrots with low-fat ranch dressing.

DAMN YOU, HEALTHY LIFESTYLES!

I wonder what other prophesies and miracle foodstuffs sent here by the gods are still lying dormant and undiscovered in people’s kitchen cupboards STILL? Maybe the date for the predicted massive earthquake that will hit the California coast is just waiting to be discovered in a box of Alpha-Bits, or maybe the location for the next act of international terrorism is mapped out in the center of an Oreo cookie somewhere. What if the perpetrators of nuclear Armageddon are revealed in the pattern of dots on the surface of a Ritz cracker somewhere, or maybe even simply if the images of the Academy Award winners in the year 2045 have been already sculpted on the individual frozen sticks inside a bag of McCain's Superfries somewhere, just waiting to be discovered?

Until these other divine signs and prophecies from the fates can be purchased and discovered from the shelves of supermarkets and grocery stores everywhere, I will begin by divulging the other possible prophecies that may have been disclosed in this same tin of Pringles chips:

Q: Who is the "King of Pop?
A: Michael Jackson

Q: How were the Hawaiian Islands formed?
A: Volcanos

Q: What did the Mayans beleive was necessary to keep order to the universe?
A: Human Sacrifice

Q: When is Haley's Comet next expected to pass by the earth?
A: 2062

So, in lieu of this missed miraculous Prophecy Pringle, I would like to alert the world now to another prophecy possibility that the Hawaiian Islands will be the setting for a catastrophic disaster in the year 2062. The islands will be destroyed completely and reduced to a pile of ash to be washed away into the Pacific Ocean by the sudden eruptions of active volcanos, UNLESS Michael Jackson is sacrificed in a ritual offering NOW in time to appease the angry gods!

Sympathy Dating 101

I FINALLY DID IT! Hoo-fucking-ray for me.

That’s right, I finally managed to show some testicular fortitude, stood up to the plate, and took a mighty swing for the stands. What am I talking about you ask? Well, I finally managed to invite out a living, breathing female out on a date. And I'm not just referring to dropping subliminal veiled hints and suggestions while she is concentrating on which brand of cola to select from the cafeteria vending machine either; I laid it all out there like Paris Hilton in a football lockerroom. I actually used the words "with" and "me"! Much to my suprise, I did NOT spontaneously combust on the spot, or fall down onto the floor in a fit of seizures. In fact, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all…besides her saying “yes” that is.

Of course, there was a lot of room for improvement in the future as it was hardly a moment out of ‘Shakespeare in Love’. But regardless, she said YES! And lucky for me too, as this bubbling crockpot of male hormones was just beginning to boil over in the wake of other recent dating setbacks.

In all honestly, for her it must have been a pretty pathetic sight to bare witness to as I twisted, squirmed, and stammered my way through my delivery like a monkey on a hotplate. But she still said ‘yes’ nonetheless and that’s all that’s really important for right now, right? Perhaps I should have made set plans with her, or choose a mutually appropriate time, or even maybe get her phone number; but I’ll be more prepared for all those when I next manage to scrape up enough balls in another 31 years to ask somebody out again.

Shit, even if she only accepted my invitation out of pure sympathy for me, I could live with that. She could have only been acting out of complete and unadulterated pity for me and my pathetic attempts at making advances, as she might have for a drowning rat, and I’ll still take it! I’ll milk every ounce of sympathy like I was working a Guernsey cow! I’m not a proud man; I'm a desperate man!

You have to play to your strengths, and if my particular strength happens to lie in being pathetic, so be it. PLAY BALL! Whatever works, baby…whatever works!

Obviously, my old standby routine of being "Handsome and Charming" hasn’t been working too well for me during the last decade or so, so it’s about high time that I change up my routine a little bit and see what I can rake in anyways. If this new being pathetic routine works, I’ll adopt it as my new sad and wretched dating mantra in a split second!

I’ll just resort to shedding so many tears while asking her out that it would instantly induce violent flashbacks in any Banda Aceh native. I could just lamely invite her over to share in a box of Kraft Macaroni and a little Kenny Loggins by candlelight in order to get her all overstimulated enough to let me play with her goodies. Soon, I’ll be reaping the pity sex by the dumptruckful!

I'm like Dating's Lex Luther!

RIP - HST

It's official, CNN is reporting that the world has been “shocked and saddened” by the recent suicide of “gonzo journalist” Hunter S. Thompson over the weekend. The bizarre and often misunderstood counter-culture writer and author fatally shot himself Sunday night at his own Aspen-area home at the ripe 'ol age of 67.

Where I agree that the world would indeed be deeply saddened, perhaps even mystified, over having lost one of it's foremost modern literary architects, I doubt that anybody is really much “shocked” per ce, or even much surprised for that matter either. This IS Hunter S. Thompson we're talking about!

How could we? The man was a complete and utter Mars bar! His very fame and notoriety were based on it. Christ, over the years the man has consumed so many intoxicants and poisons that he could probably walk straight into a nuclear fallout zone and experience no ill side effects whatso-fucking-ever. By now, the guy must have had the Immune System of a cockroach, and had probably burned out more brain cells than all the combined members of Motley Crue.

"We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon." (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)

I don't think he's talking about a Girl Scout bake sale here!

By this point in his life, I’m surprised that he hadn’t killed off so many brain cells already that he wouldn’t have been able to even remember his name or wipe his own ass. But shooting himself? Sure, I could buy that easily. It saddens me of course, but I’m not terribly surprised any more than I would be if Richard Simmons ever decided to come out of the closet. I believe it was well inside the realm of possibility for Hunter S. Thompson all along.

In fact, I’m only shocked that it didn’t happen sooner! Through numerous drug and alcohol addictions, self-induced psychosis and panic attacks, and even being chain-stomped into pudding by members of the notorious Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang, this guy has had and used more lives than Morris the Cat! I say, this recent suicide was just a simple case of mortality catching up with Hunter. It was bound to happen eventually. Nobody ever really believed he was going to go out quietly in his sleep, did they?

I think at this point in his career, we all realized he wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards...if ever. It should have been clear then and now that the man was more crackers than my grandmothers infamous “Mini-Ritz Pie’, not just representing “that dark, venal, and incurably violent side of the American character” as Richard Nixon himself once pointed out. But hey, ‘ol Tricky Dick wasn’t too big in the smarts department himself either.

"Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full with what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, and a voice was screaming: Holy Jesus. What are these goddamn animals?" (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)

"...a BTK Killer Combo with fries, please."

(Edited to add, that as of 02-26-05, 59 year old city employee and dog catcher Dennis Rader has been arrested and is being convicted as the elusive BTK Killer. Authorities have not yet revealed if fast food, or Burger King in particular, were prime motivating factors in the BTK murders.)

After nearly 25 years of eerie silence, the notorious “BTK” killer has once again engaged contact with Wichita police officials and the local Kansas television radio and news media (particularly, KAKE-TV). That means that the Boogeyman has been lurking and walking amongst us all this time.

“Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doooooo…”

The BTK killer terrorized the Wichita Kansas area beginning 31 years ago with the January 15th, 1974 murders of the Otero family. The four family members were found strangled with Venetian blind cords in their home. The telephone lines had been cut and semen was found left at the scene. So besides being one sick fuck, this also indicated that the BTK killer’s intentions were premeditated and planned out well in advance of them taking place. Since then, this devious serial killer has successfully claimed 8 murders, 7 strangled and 1 stabbed, up until 1986 before mysterious disappearing altogether. Now the Devil himself has come home to roost!

The nickname of “BTK” was a self-dubbed title based on the killers own self-described MO of ‘Bind, Torture, Kill’. In this time, the clever killer taunted and teased Kansas state police officials and FBI criminologists and profilers by sending regular correspondences, 11 in total that included dark poetry that could inspire Marilyn Manson to seek psychiatric help, and actual souvenirs from the victims themselves and crime scenes over the years.

Just one thing: how the fuck can anyone be even remotely fearful of anybody calling themself BTK? Is this the best that an obviously extremely intelligent individual, albeit a grossly disturbed one with fewer morals than the female guards at the Camp Bucco military prison, could come up with? It sounds like a new limited time only sandwich available at Burger King! I highly doubt that I’m going to be too fearful of anyone named the “Bacon & Tomato Killer”. It’s just a whole lot less “in your face” from a normal psycho killers perspective I would think. Why, with all the other ghoulish names that the killer referred to himself as in his letters*, did he ever settle on just BTK? Shit, I’m more likely to experience more panicked reactions to somebody named ‘Spoofy the Killer Clown’.

I think if I were ever to decide to go on a mass murder spree and engage myself in coy games of ‘cat and mouse’ with investigating authorities, I would first want a cooler handle to be recognized by. BTK just doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of men so much as it gives them a bad case of indigestion. I would instead want a name with balls, something like: the Killinator, or Sir Stranglesalot. Something that really grabs the public’s attention instead of just being misconstrued as another fast food commerical, or anything that could be "Super Sized".

Nor do I believe that anyone would ever allow themselves to be brought to such intense anger and hatred over a simple Burger King sandwich that he is driven to brutally binding, torturing, and killing innocent people before wacking off over their violated corpses. Hey, I’ve had some bad burgers before too, but that would just be over the fucking top, don’t you think? Unless, he’s really trying to tell us something…

Perhaps it’s actually Burger King that is triggering the unconscious of this regular blue-collar schmuck into a bloodthirsty psychotic suffering from advanced delusionary schizophrenia with involuntary narcissistic rage. That would be one hell of an allergic reaction! I can foresee future media coverage of the pending court trial once the killer is brought to justice. It would be another unique spin on the infamous 1978 David White “Twinkie Case” defense, in which defending attorney’s blamed the killers monstrous rampage on snack food.

Imagine the pitiful pleas to the jury from the accused:

“It’s something in the Special Sauce that makes me want to kill. I can’t help myself! Just one whiff of those flame-grilled paddies and I get an erection and begin to imagine horrible thoughts. The burgers are making me do it, I SWEAR!”

* Nicknames that included: the Wichita Strangler, Poetic Strangler, the Bondage Strangler or Psycho, the Wichita Hangman, the Wichita Executioner, the Garrote Phantom, the Asphyxiator, and even Giggles the Mad Strangler.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Single

In a of moment of clarity today, while debating over the endless choices of single portioned frozen pre-prepared meals at the local Supermart today, I recognized, that along with the other single and lonely men also laboring over their weekly President’s Choice menu options alongside me, that I deserve more out of this life. Somehow, as I maneuver my loaded grocery basket of processed food stuffs through the food aisles I become aware that I'm terribly lonely, and that whoever said Supermarkets and grocery stores were a great place to pick up single women should be dropkicked directly in the gentials by Jean Claude Van Damme!

For some lucky men, the delicate art of flirting and establishing meaningful relationships is as easy as selling reclining chairs to senior citizens. They make it look so friggin' easy. Some men could have a dog turd stitched to their forehead and still manage to find a few numbers from interested women for a Friday night. Me? I bitch on the Internet about my inadequacies and bake cat treats for my cat. No dame is beating any path to my door!

It’s been almost an entire decade since I’ve dated, romanced, or even been considered as part of anything that could be remotely concieved as a mature adult relationship. The most intimate experience I’ve had in the last 8 years with another living creature, outside of my cat walking across my lap in the middle of the night, was in a barber’s chair while leafing through the cracked pages of a vintage 70’s era Hustler magazine selected from the fanned out display on the end table in the corner of the shop*. Where's the living creature you ask? Well, there was at least someone else in the room at the time when it occurred.

I’m a nice guy and I follow all the normal prescribed dating rules. I smile when making eye contact with pretty girls, I am courteous and attentive to others around me, and I don't fart in public**. I heed all the popular advise in trendy Men’s magazines that I recycle from the laundromat, I try and keep up on current feminine issues, as well as try to observe all the tips given to me by friends and family about the attracting and wooing of available members from the opposite sex. And still, it’s President’s Choice purgatory for me! Obviously people have either been giving me wrong advise, or I’ve completely missed my calling as the main attraction of a traveling Freak Show appearing as ‘Koko, the Retarded Muleboy’.

WELL NO MORE! I’m doing things dead fucking opposite from now on! Obviously the tips and suggestions that I’ve been following so far are not mounting up much successes, so I might as well do exactly the opposite to see if that works any better. What's the worse that can happen? Either I'll finally meet and fall in love with that perfect woman at long last, or I'll be serving 15 to 20 years as the girlfriend of some dude name Big Tony in Gen Pop.

Lets just look at some of the more misguided common tidbits of wisdom that are regularly offered to single, desperate schleps and losers like myself:

• “You have to learn to put yourself out there.”

What the fuck does this mean exactly? How can I NOT put myself out there? Do I not do my laundry every Sunday afternoon at the laundromat like half the rest of the planet, or eat my tuna fish sandwiches in the cafeteria at work with all my co-workers, or even struggle with my bags of President’s Choice grocery items every payday like other normal people? How else can I make myself any more available? I'm "OUT THERE", dammit!

So how do you "put yourself out there exactly"? Just because I wouldn't dare shackle myself before jumping into a tank of eels or eat a plate of deep fried pig snouts in reindeer spuzz, doesn't mean that I'm not boyfriend material! I’m not putting myself “out there” anymore than I’m doing right now until I have more reason to be out in the first place!

• “Just be patient.”

I’d like to take out a contract on the lives of each idiot who ever offered me this little gem of enlightenment over the years! Were these moolyaks ever even listening to me? What else did they think I’ve been doing all this time by myself? So let me clue them all in right now: I already HAVE been patient, you dipshits! How much longer am I supposed to wait exactly?

I guess it’s just easy for some people to brush off my plight of loneliness as something that has just been delayed in automatically being remedied for me. "There are plenty of fish in the sea!" Well, this tuna has swam a zillion miles and waited for a pretty long time already, and if I’m kept waiting any longer I fear there won’t be much left to offer anyone in the way of romance unless I resort to mainlining pure Viagara on a daily basis. It’s easy enough for these people who go home regularly to their loved ones each night to eat their shared meals and discuss their days, before performing the “beast with two backs” like two howler monkeys during a full moon dry heat. However, this advice does very little in the way of offering me any real comfort or hope.

• “Stop looking so hard.”

Oh, sure! That’s another easy thing for them to say! But it's also a damn-fucking-near impossible thing to expect from anybody after nearly a decade of abstinence in Singledom already! That’s like recommending a starving person to go on the Atkins Diet! How does this advice even make any sense? How can you find what you’re not even searching for? A willing, intelligent, nubile-bodied sex goddess could pass within groping range from me and I’d never know because I was dutifully following a friend’s advice by “not looking so hard”. Hey, thanks a lot Dr. Ruth! But I think I should keep my eyes open and letching at all times thank you; lest Ms. Right should walk by in a skimpy cocktail dress whistling my favorite tune.

• “Respect their needs".

Huh? Are they trying to imply that women haven’t been flocking to my side because I’ve in some way been too uncourteous or self absorbed? Hey, I like to open the door for the ladies, put down the toilet seat when I’m done taking a leak, and even freshen their drinks after they've finished! I’m a regular Arthurian Knight when it comes to chivalry and proper manly conduct and etiquette. My mother didn’t raise any livestock let me reassure you. But still, after 10 years, WHEN IS SOMEBODY GOING TO GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MY NEEDS? I would have thought that by now even a little sympathy booty might have been thrown my way. But apparently, when it comes to my own needs I’m to receive no more respect than that of an indentured manservant for all my polite and noble efforts.

And this one is my favorite:

• “Just be yourself”.

Now, these people in particular I would like to have ritually executed. Could someone be anymore fucking vague or condescending in their giving of worldly advice on how to establish meaningful relationships with women? Once again, if I wasn’t being myself already, who the fuck else could I have possible been? Apparently, there is something that I am doing now in being myself that is actually repelling all possible romantic interests already. Maybe I should just be someone else completely different. Surely it couldn’t have any more worse results than that of whatever it was that I was doing normally for the past 10 years already!

It seems to me, that when I look around at other attached men holding hands in the mall with their wives and girlfriends happily sharing timeless moments over plates of pecan pie and coffee; I see them as how their girlfriends would want them to appear. In any other circumstance as a free single man, I no doubt expect these same guys would still be scratching themselves in their flannel pajama pants and ripped football jerseys at 3:30pm in the afternoon in front of the boob tube, instead of out shopping for promise rings with their significant others in matching jacket and loafers.

Never being one to pay much attention to competitive sports growing up, I fail to see the point in playing a game where I'm continually getting my ass kicked. I have no more idea how to score in this crazy dating game than I do about Molecular Genetics. All I know is that I'm tired of President's Choice meals and spending my weekends crying in the shower with a bag of Oreo's.

To hell with everyone's stupid advice! I'm going to quit casting out the futile Blue Steel gazes to women in the Frozen Food aisle and just be satisfied with the late-night "pawjobs" from my cat. I'm a sexual camel at this point. At this rate, my best bet is to hold out on my stores of spent masculinity until the coming Armageddon when I will at last be in demand by surviving post-apocalyptic babes for my manly services in repopulating the planet!

Truth be told, if my friends and family really wanted to be of any worthy assistance to me, they would just dispense with the cheap crystal ball bullshit altogether and just hook me up with any single available friend of theirs who isn't missing any of her fingers or toes, who likes B-movie horror films and bucket bongs on Sunday afternoons, who can name more than one Simple Minds album, and who also happens to be currently rewriting pages 230-267 of the Kama-Sutra wouldn't be bad either.

* I feel it is also worth noting here that I have not been in any actual Barbershop chairs in almost 7 years.

** Unless there any convenient stray dogs or old men in the vicinity to blame it on.

Adventures in Workplace Stupidity

In the cafeteria at work today, the good people in the Human Resources department were offering us lowly wage donkey's a suprise buffet of bonbons in another one of their zany corporate attempts to improve upon the existing workplace moral. Hey, it’s a nice gesture and I appreciate their efforts to appease both my sweet tooth as well as my rapidly expanding waistline. I love free candy as much as the next guy. Honestly, I do!

For this particular festive spread, they offered what appeared to be the remnants of a mass Valentine’s Day Clearance sale, with bowls of flavored popcorn, jelly beans, sugary heart-shaped confection candies, and of course, those fucking cinnamon hearts that you simply cannot avoid even days after Valentine’s Day has passed! In order to help themselves to this plentiful candy booty, employees were required to dish out their portions of candy plunder from the bowls onto a handheld napkin with plastic cafeteria spoons.

WTF?

Who’s bright fucking idea was that? Are we so paranoid now about contagious germs and infectious disease that we can’t even use our hands to scoop discounted candy out of the same bowl? Shit, it’s probably all most of us can do is to just hold ourselves back from launching ourselves face first into the candy bowl with open mouth and just start mowing down like starving hyenas. Surely they jest. Has the earth suddenly reversed its rotation or something?

Do you know how LONG it takes to scoop out mini-bitesized candies onto a balanced napkin with a plastic spoon? Why not just give us chopsticks and a banana leaf? What, are these morons like the corporate Khymer Rouge or something? Give us the proper tools to do the fucking job, man! The queue of employees, all eagerly racing to get back to their work stations after their 15 minute coffee breaks, were moving through the line at the same rate it would take an entire Retirement Community to work their way through the aisles of food bins at the local Bulk Barn. Heaven’s forbid if any motherfucker should even think of trying to spend any time attempting to pick around any particular colored candy in the bowl. There would be mutany among the ranks I’m sure!

I opted to waive my right to get in line behind my co-workers for my opportunity to slowly and awkwardly load up a single napkin of sugared treats. I had images in my head of Russian breadlines and prison camp inmates all waiting behind me for their own chance to feed their cravings as I delicately maneuver jelly beans from the sea of vile cinnamon hearts with a plastic spoon that’s shaking like Michael J. Fox finishing a bowl of soup. Just think how long at that rate, it would take to scoop out an adequate portion of small, slippery-to-handle candies large enough to satisfy even a fat bastard such as myself? Christ, I’ll be there working over those bowls all fucking day like a focused surgeon in an Emergency operating room!

There will be employees behind me in line dropping from starvation and exhaustion before they’ve even had a chance to help themselves to the candy bowls before I step away from that candy buffet, let me tell you! Unbeknownst to anyone but me at the time, was just how close to a Cambodian Killing Field situation they nearly came to having on their hands had I instead chosen to join that line!

I could picture the possible scenario playing out now over the walkie-talkies between Work Force Management and my own Team Managers:

“kkkkkft! Terry Nash is now on a 36 minute personal break. Over.”
“Roger that, Command. He’s at the candy bowl. Over.”
“kkkkkft! Copy that. Over”

(some time later…)

“kkkkkft! Terry Nash is now on a 65 minute personal break. Over.”
“Roger that, Command. He’s, ahhhh…still at the bowl. Over.”
“kkkkkft! How much longer at this point? Over.”
“Can’t tell. He’s only managed three jelly beans so far, so we suspect that he’ll either be full by the middle of next week, if the plastic spoon doesn't wear out first. Over.”

Storming the Kitchen Refrigerator

There is a love-hate relationship growing within my apartment between my cat and the refrigerator. The tension is beginning to mount between the two opposing parties so that the very air in my kitchen carries the thick mingled stenches of fear and aggression that might also have wafted over the battle fields of Classical times like the burning incense to Ares himself.

Each time I fetch a single juice drink-box or grab another breakfast bar, the refrigerator gapes open temporarily to my cat like a bright, inviting portal into an entirely different realm of existence. Whenever this opportunity presents itself (which at the current rate of expansion of my waistline – is about every 2 ½ minutes, or at until the Kraft processed cheese singles last), my cat instantly try’s to bumrush the foodstuffs inside from across the kitchen, and practically stuffs himself into the vegetable crisper.

To him, the inside of the refrigerator represents the last bastion of unmarked territory in the entire apartment. The items contained inside are virgin territory for having been marked by a single furious kitty-face rubbing that would heat a frozen Swanson’s TV dinner. Making it even more maddening for him no doubt is that the fridge holds all the REALLY good stuff in the apartment, the stuff he REALLY wants to rub with his kitty face*, and he can’t even get to it!

It must be driving him fucking batty judging by the way he storms the fridge like a medieval crusader on a seiged Infidel’s castle each time I open the fridge door and then furiously doling out the kitty-face rubdowns on anything within reach; hot dogs, onions, potatoes, jars of raspberry jam, Cheese Whiz, or even last nights leftover casserole du jour...nothing is too stale, too out of date, or just too plain fucking nasty to be left unmarked!

Unfortunately for him his window of opportunity, this delicious gateway to Rubdown Shangri-la, only lasts for a few seconds before the door inevitably comes swinging shut behind him with the quick inertia of a Venus Flytrap instinctually snapping shut on it’s prey.

I think the refrigerator may actually be stalking my cat! Is that even possible? Sometimes I notice that the fridge door will sometimes linger open, closing more slowly than normal, luring my cat into a false sense of security while he wedges himself deeper into it’s shelves in order to mark forgotten packages of meat, miscellaneous condiment packets, and wilted produce, before suddenly it speeds up and slams shut to trap his furry ass inside!

It does in fact look at times like the refrigerator door is purposely baiting his poor naive furry ass. If I’m not careful, one of these days I’m likely to open the fridge door to find a frozen kittycycle stuck to the butter dish, after he was lured and trapped inside while I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich one afternoon before leaving for work.

It’s a tragedy waiting to happen. I wonder if “Carnivorous Refrigerators” are covered under regular pet insurance?

* I imagine that this must be the case for my cat, since if ever I were given the same choice of anything in my fridge and the exposed rim of my toilet bowl; I’d take the expired yogurt culture too!

Valentine's Valetudinarian

Today is Valentine’s Day. Woo-fucking-ha!

In other words, today is the granddaddy of all corporate sponsored Hallmark holidays, created solely to capitalize on mass consumerism with specifically designed marketing strategies to further line the pockets of the Company Chairmen with the hard-earned dollars of the dishevelled wage donkeys, like myself.

In the beginning however, there was still shred of intended actual purpose for Valentine’s Day starting back in the time of the Roman Empire. In ancient Rome, February 14th was a holiday to honor Juno, the Queen of the Roman Gods and Goddesses. The Romans also knew her as the Goddess of women and marriage*. The following day, February 15th, began the Feast of Lupercalia. On this eve of the festival of Lupercalia the names of Roman girls were written with slips of paper and placed into jars. Each eligible young man would draw a girl’s name from the jar and would then be partners for the duration of the festival with the girl he chose. Sometimes the pairing of the children lasted an entire year, where they would fall in love and eventually marry.

Shit, that sounds like my Grade 9 gym class when it came time to leanr ‘Ballroom Dancing’ as part of the mandatory class curriculum, and we would have to anonymously draw our dance partners lest there should be any damaging of pre-pubescent pride or deeper feelings of inadequacy among class members. I say that this is a fucking fantastic idea, since at the very least I’d automatically have more of a running chance with the one guaranteed partner than I do now with none at all! Hey, the girl I may have chosen may have ended up with a face that you could carve a roast on, but at least I would be guaranteed not be lounging at home alone on my triclinium on Valentine’s Day watching ‘Everybody Loves Herodotus’ on the family lararium like a complete HOMO DETERRIME **.

Under the rule of Emperor Claudius II, Rome was involved in many bloody and unpopular campaigns. 'Claudius the Cruel' was having a difficult time getting soldiers to join his military leagues. He believed that the reason was the Roman men did not want to leave their loves or families. As a result, Claudius cancelled all marriages and engagements in Rome. And it was under such a political climate that the good Roman priest Valentinus enters into the picture and forever alters the scope of this holiday tradition.

He and Saint Marius continued to aid the Christian martyrs and secretly married couples in love, and thereby committing them for the rest of their lives together to purchasing boxed chocolate candy by the pound, extortionately expensive bouquets of flowers, decorative cards, and ridiculously useless stuffed teddy bears that say “I Wuv You” when you pull the cord attached to it’s back.

For his deeds, Valentinus was apprehended and dragged before the Prefect of Rome, who condoned him to be beaten to death with clubs and to have his head cut off…which as I see it, is still preferable to spending half your February income each year on needless novelty holiday crap to prove to your significant other that you actually do think about them from time to time. He suffered this martyrdom on the 14th of February, about the year 269AD…the lucky bastard! Rumor has it, that before his death, it was Saint Valentinus himself that sent the first official Valentine card to the daughter of a prison guard that he had become enamored with before he perished and signed it: “Love from your Valentine”.

Awww, isn’t that romantic? Courage and adversity in the name of injustice, the unreciprocated love between two forbidden lovers, and the eventual beheading by a cruel dominant overlord. Man, this shit is right of out a Hans Christian Anderson fairytale!

Despite the efforts of the Christian Church in Rome, Valentine’s Day continued to echo Lupercalia in at least one aspect – the drawing of lots between men and women to pair them up and the exchanging of gifts and tokens of love. This tradition persisted well into the 18th century. Gradually, however, a shift took place. No longer did both parties exchange gifts; instead, gift-giving became solely the responsibility of the man!

WTF? How’d we men manage to, yet again, allow ourselves to be screwed into another one-sided arrangement? Traditionally, this new twist to the Valentine's tradition intended to finally bring an end to the random drawings of names, since many men were unhappy about giving gifts (sometimes very expensive) to women who were not of their own choosing (ie. Women for whom it would be necessary to wear a bag over their head in order to conceal their face before any type of consummation could be managed successfully). And now that individuals were free to select their own Valentine, the celebration took on a new and much more serious meaning for couples. Namely, the automatic associated nervous Valentine’s Day anxiety that every single man on the planet feels in his loins, and will inevitably torture himself with, as well as the further lending itself to deep rooted inadequacy and lack of self-confidence issues. Oh, fucking goodie! Just what I need, another excuse to develop a personal complex!

Like I don’t suffer enough during the other 364 lonely days of the year feeling like a completely wretched, unlovable ghoul…thank you very fucking much! So when do we male schleps get our holiday comeuppance then? It’s not like we ever stop begging for sex the rest of year, am I right? We work hard for our Valentine’s Day sweethearts! So, when do we get to feel wooed and desirable in return then?

A wise Canadian musician named David Wilcox once said:

"I wish I had a million dollars
To buy her everything she needs
She'd only come back for more and more and more and more and more and more...
I'm layin' pipe
All night long
Layin' pipe
I'm working so hard
I'm layin' pipe
All night long
Layin' pipe
To satisfy that woman"

Fucking-A! How about a little respect ladies?

There should be another entirely separate holiday similar to Valentine’s Day, only more geared towards the men. Shit, Lord knows we men spend most of our time plotting and conspiring with the objects of our affection in order to convince them to allow us to teabag them in the public bathroom at McDonald’s or something, so there should be a special holiday to honor our dedicated advances where we men will be pursued and competed for by our female counterparts for a fucking change!

We could hold another holiday for the men immediately after Valentine’s Day and call it ‘Steak and Blowjob Day’! Forget the candy, red roses, and nonessential holiday frou-frou bullshit; let’s get to the nasty, baby!

As it is now, the only indication I ever have that it is in fact Valentine’s Day is that my place of employment has a customary passing out of special “Candy-grams” among the co-employee’s. Inevitably, these special Valentine’s Candy-grams are passed out throughout the shift, and not only do I ever get fuck all, but I usually end up stuck sitting between two girls who get like a zillion Candy-grams each, and proceed to publicly open each one, before giggling to themselves and waving to each member of their fan club across the work floor like a Queen waving to her loyal subjects from her balcony window; my pride plummeting like a sinking stone with each opened Candy-gram. It’s like being caught in the middle of a popularity war! Now, I understand that this Valentine’s workplace practice is intended to promote employee moral, but inevitably it just achieves exactly the opposite for single schmucks like myself. Instead, I feel like Buffalo Bill from ‘Silence of the Lambs’, and I end up walking around my apartment with my penis tucked between my legs and demanding that my cat puts its lotion on!

“Youwannafuckme, huh? Youwannafuckme? ...Precious?”

Why don’t I ever get any Candy-grams? Shit, nobody even looks at me twice if I were to fart loudly in my swivel chair, much less think to send me a little token of affection. Do I look like somebody who wouldn’t want a Candy-gram? Fuck, I’m a fat fucking man here! I’ll take and eat as many grams of them Candy-motherfucker’s as they can dish out by the wheel-barrowful! Or is it that I just give off an aura of Valentine’s Day indifference as I currently am living a life about as exciting as pudding skin?

How attractive do I feel? Christ, I'm enough to make Charlie Brown seem like Warren Beatty.

* It can also be argued that Juno was also the Goddess of nagging, allimony payments, and of putting the toilet seat down.

** Roughly translated as: "Lowest of the low life's"

Setting New Records in Land Speed Shitting

I was called out by ‘Work Force Management’ today at work for taking an excessively long “personal break", and I would just like to state here for the record, for all those Corporate moolyaks who have nothing better to do than watch the time clock for even the remotest variance in work productivity from any of the poor faceless rubes slaving in their assigned cubicles that I was, in fact, taking a much needed and necessary S-H-I-T at the time! Thank you very much.

It’s called a “natural bodily function” for those brainless nitwits who may not have heard of this naturally occurring function that is known to take place periodically as part of the necessary daily processes required by this complex machine we know as the human body in order for it’s very survival. In my case, this natural body function required my excretory system a total of 6 1/2 minutes to accomplish.

Apparently, is has been previously determined that 6 ½ minutes is much too long of a required time allotment with which to successfully and comfortably pinch a loaf while working within the walls of Corporate Hell. Oh yeah, no shit*?

I wonder where this pre-determined bathroom timeframe that is so rigorously enforced by my place of employment is outlined for me exactly? Is there some kind of obscure Labor Law that clearly defines the acceptable time periods in which I can shit and piss and I just missed it, or was this just another mandated detail in the issued company ‘Code of Business Conduct and Ethics’?

“Employees are permitted to take needed bathroom breaks during their regular work shifts. However, for a normal 8-hour workday, only 2 minutes will be allotted for taking a piss, and only 3 minutes to drop a deuce. An extra minute will be permitted for either bodily function if the employee is working overtime as outlined in Article 3:27-38 of the Canadian Labor Act.”

Who decided how long it takes me to take a shit anyways? I’m 32-fucking-years old for Christ sakes! You just can’t rush these kinds of things anymore lest I should rupture something while trying to play ‘Beat the Clock’ in order to squeeze out a shit and get back to my cubicle desk before somebody notices I’m past my allotted shitting timeframe.

Geez, soon we’ll be expected to wear colostomy bags to work or have to resort to using the waste paper baskets at our desks lest we should be caught taking more time than is allowed by the ‘Work force Management’ to perform our bodily business and save precious work time. Why don’t they just slip us Exlax in our morning coffees in order to speed up the whole bodily process so that they can be assured that we will be in out of the employee’s bathroom in one single squirt that lets loose instantly once we're seated like the blast from a high-powered firehose?

Surely, they don’t expect me to carry a stopwatch or an egg timer into the can with me so that I can accurately keep track of the time that it takes me to squeeze out a steamer do they? I’d say that's just something that takes as long as it's going to takes, wouldn’t you think? You just can't rush that kind of bid'ness, dig? What are they going to do, organize some kind of Bathroom Gestapo that kicks in the stall door regardless of whether you’re finished or not by the end of your allowed time? I’d like to see any one of those ‘Work Force Management’ idiots deal with the after effects of a poorly prepared ‘Whopper Combo’ from Burger King only 20 minutes after it has hit their digestive tract, in a mere 3 minutes! HA!

I don’t know about anyone else, but I like to take my time and settle in so that I can somewhat enjoy the whole experience as best as possible given the circumstances. Not too much mind you, as I am also keenly aware of other unwholesome bodily functions that have been perpetrated in the near vicinity as well. Basically, I am here to perform a job like any other. And I don’t believe in doing anything half assed**. Shit, if it was more acceptable by common society, I’d probably invite friends and family to join me so that we could enjoy a full-blown keg rager together inside the stall while I’m occupied.

THREE MINUTES? That wouldn’t be enough time for a diuretic gerbil! I wonder if there was some sort of intensive market research conducted by my corporate superiors to determine the adequate time required for a normal employee to take a shit? I’m not sure where, or by whom, this kind of market research would be conducted, but I’m sure that if 3 minutes was the result that they came up with, it sure as fuck wasn’t this call center! It would take most of these brontosauruses, including myself, at least a quarter of an hour to even lumber their wide loads to the employee’s bathroom from their cubicle desk, nevermind the timeframe needed to successfully complete the catastrophic events that will inevitably take place while in there!

I'm sure some of my work peers have disappeared into the bathroom never to be seen again, until one day they appear back at their desk with a twinkle in their eye like a much-satisfied Rip Van Tinkle. So where was this survey done exactly, an Olympic Track training camp or something?

“Carl Lewis was able to shave 0.53 seconds off his wind sprint to the bathroom, and completed his shit in only 2.37 mins. Somebody call ‘Work Force Management’, it’s a new shitting World Time Record!”

* Pun intended

** Yes, both puns were intended there to

XXXXXXX-Madness

A new ‘Adult Novelty and Video Entertainment’ store has just opened up in our neighborhood. Just what a nice residential, god fearing, family-orientated community like the one I live in needs; a convenient one-stop smut shop. I suppose this means now that I will have to be on special watch out for peepers, perverts, and “pornophiles” around the neighborhood, as well now having to keep a closer eye on my cat when I let him outside.

Just fucking perfect! (No pun intended)

The real scary thing about this new Porno Emporium is that it has seven, extremely obtrusive, red* neon X’s flashing in the front window that I expect can probably be seen from Jupiter. To look directly into any one of these neon X’s would probably result in both your retinas being burned out of your eye sockets if for even only a second. The combination of the seven together rivals that of the sun in intensity. I suspect these intimidating X’s in the shore’s window act as a beacon to signal it’s whereabouts to the perverts in the neighborhood, much like a smutty lighthouse, drawing them in like a neon siren song.

Also, why seven red X’s exactly? I’m already quite familiar with the usual series of one, two, three, and even in some rare cases, four X’s, but SEVEN?

WTF? That has to be some really filthy shit! What kind of depraved acts of sexual perversion could possibly be so uber-nasty that it’s required to carry a universally recognized rating of seven-fucking-X’s? The place must have videos of men boinking women (and I use that term loosely) who are just one huge fucking vagina or something. Or maybe, this particular ‘Adult Novelty and Video Entertainment’ store is the last bastion on earth that still offers bootlegs of extreme underground ‘Penguin Pit-Fighting’ videos which is otherwise banned on six continents and in most other decent and moral circles of popular, well-adjusted society.

Given the already graphic nature of pornography currently available at any local 'Higi-Hagi Mart' today, what kind of complete smut monger would still need to then think to himself “Hmmm, you know, these Triple-X anal gangbang fetish videos just aren’t hardcore enough. What I need is something more graphic. Something with more of a disturbing Sept-X rating.”

Who would even frequent a store like this? I bet you couldn’t swing a “rubber-beaded, double jelly dong” without hitting anyone who may be, or on their way to being the next Paul Bernardo! I wouldn’t even be able to touch anything inside a place like this lest I should catch some rare strain of alien STD or something and my penis falls off completely; much less browse the aisles for the intended purpose of purchasing or renting anything. I think I would probably commit hara kiri if anyone I knew were ever to catch me within half a city block of the place, much less ever entering or leaving the establishment (another term I use loosely). That one would be a little difficult to explain away.

"Ummmm, oh...in HERE? Oh, NOOOOOOOOO! Nononononono, not me! Well okay, yeah. I bought these nipple clamps for my mother as a Christmas present, but I have to return them for a size larger. Besides, it's the only place that sells Heavenly Hash scented candles."

So, I wonder what Grandma wants this year for her birthday? Maybe I can luck out and find a great deal on some good ‘ol fashioned juicy Japanese fetish piss videos with a coupon I clipped out from the inevitable “Grand Opening Orgy” flyer that will no doubt end up in my mailbox tomorrow morning.

* Red, as it should be noted, is the commonly recognized color symbol of fire trucks, MacIntosh apples, clown noses, and scorchingly hot, porno. The kind of porno that requires a deadbolt to be installed on your bedroom door.

"Glazed Cat Barf w/ Baby Carrots"

Is there some kind of consumer guideline somewhere that mandates that all microwaveable frozen dinners must in some way resemble something that your pet might have just chucked up onto the living room floor?

I have yet to remove the box packaging and cellophane wrapper from any frozen dinner and NOT found that it already appears, smells, and tastes like reheated animal vomit (or fresh road kill, depending on what your choice of meal offered within is). You very nearly have to wear a blindfold just in order to successfully stomach the contents of your meal as you shovel it down your throat.

The good news is; that each time my cat decides to spew forth a bellyful of extreme nastiness, I am completely unphased. I could probably spoon up his warm retch off the floor with a wooden spoon and eat it then and there much easier than I ever could with any currently available Lean Cuisine, Stouffer's, Healthy Lifestyle, or Swanson's frozen dinner on the market.

Keeping in mind that these frozen dinners don't contain enough eatible portions to keep a chipmunk alive ~ after a few months living on these easy-to-prepare microwaveable dinners at work, you would develop the stomach lining of a goat. You could become so conditioned to eating shit that you could eat things that would make the most hardcore Survivalist green. I could now look at he most vile thing on the planet and immediatelyt scarf it down with nary a second thought. I could fall down on my knees and mindlessly chow down on freshly dropped fecal matter from the ground left behind by a herd of African Elephants and never so much as experience a single dry-heave because I’ve already eaten and stomached the Lean Cuisine 'Chicken a l'orange with Wild Rice Pilaf'!

"Superior Taste Guaranteed". My ass!

I think for those of us who have had to assume this kind of convenient nourishment in our lives on a regular basis, I’m confident that we are also conditioning ourselves to be stronger and more apt to fend off future diseases and infestation because our bodies will already be accustomed and equipped to handle, digest, and thrive on these less-than-desirable meal choices.

In an age where additives, preservatives, and artificial flavoring are running amok in our food products and being commonly used to represent and replace REAL food, how can those of us who regularly eat these frozen crap pies and convenient to prepare stir-fry’s ever go wrong? We’ll be able to digest things that will drop the rest of these uber-fit healthzoids are eating.

It’s survival of the fittest afterall, and I much more prefer my chances of surviving the upcoming nuclear Armageddon by building up my Immune, Digestive, and Lymphatic Systems now, so that when need be, I will not fall victim to the first tin of canned beans that I eat in the fallout shelter after the first volley of bombs drop like the heady naturalist who will inevitably suffer excruciating agony at the hands of a severe case of Salmonella.

Bush's In the Hood

President George Bush outlined new proposals in his February 2nd ‘State of the Union’ speech aimed at helping at-risk youth in the United States overcome the danger of gang influence and involvement. Huh? Isn’t George currently waging enough battles on foreign soil already that he shouldn’t really be needing to pick any other new fights in his own domestic homeland as well? Is this guy trigger-happy or what? I guess since he had that first sniff of weapons of mass destruction in his last term of office that he's now ready to settle for a more sure thing; weapons of mass murder.

The Justice Department estimates that approximately 750,000 individuals are members of gangs – one third of which are under the age of 18. To help combat the rising number of gang members and to deescalate the increasing levels of violence, the President announced a new outreach effort, led by none other than Mrs. Laura Bush, to focus on young Americans, especially young men, to help ensure a successful future.

Pardon? Did I hear that right? Laura-fucking-Bush? Is this the same woman that George also affectionately refers to as “lump in my bed”?

So let me get this straight: in an effort to tone down gang-related activity and violence, the country is unleashing Laura Bush to go all ‘Colors’ on their hommie asses? Oh yeah, that sure sounds like a great plan!

What would a millionaire’s wife know about gangs from the mean streets of New York, Los Angeles, Oakland, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, etc? Christ, why don’t we just enlist "Luvy" from ‘Gilligan’s Island’ in our war against international terrorism?

Did the Bush’s just go and rent a bunch of Ice Cube movies from Blockbuster Video over the weekend and now they’re all fired up to start thrownin’ down and begin slammin’ and bangin’ with the Cribs and the Bloods down on the corner or something? Or maybe they became concerned with the festering urban gang problem after overhearing Jenna and Barbara playing a Public Enemy album a little too loud one afternoon while lounging around the Whitehouse pool.

Can you picture Laura sporting her "colors" and flipping gang signs as deftly as Tupac Shakur ordering cheeseburgers at Burger King. She’s be decked out in high top sneakers, baggie-ass jeans, and a babushka rapping out her message of faith and hope in ghetto Ebonics that would confuse even Snoop Dogg, like the chill beotch she is.

Towards this three year initiative, the President has earmarked $150 million dollars. What is that $150 million dollars going to go towards anyways? Holy shit, that’s a LOT of Raiders ball caps and malt liquor! Are the American people going to get into the music business and release positive and motivational anti-gang themed rap albums from reputable new model artists like Irs-One, Run-WindowsXP, and N.W.C. (Niggers With Checkbooks). Or maybe they can introduce an intramural curling bonspiel where rival gang members can settle their turf wars on a sheet of ice with brooms like civilized niggaz.

Here’s a crazy idea: spend the $150 million dollars on enforcing stricter gun control* to keep the weapons from the hands of an irrational, intellectually-stunted misfit who has nothing better to do than commit murder because somebody looked at his ‘ho. THAT would be better way of serving the taxpayers money, don’t you think? What are they going to commit acts of gang violence with if you remove the guns and illegally obtained weapons from the equation? Are gangbangers instead going to resort to throwing corn muffins at one another from opposite sides of the street? I doubt there are many O.G. gangster types out there who will be cruising the hood waiting for the perfect opportunity to pick off a rival gang member in a “Drive-By Insulting”. Pretty scary shit, huh?

Without their precious guns, gang members will be reduced to settling territorial conflicts with West Side Story dance-offs. Who would want to join a gang when he/she sees a bunch of O.G. Fairies in doo-rags shaking their booty’s at one another as if it was Soul Train all over again! That sight alone raging away on the mean streets of Compton would be enough to even scare off the biggest and toughest homeboys on the block from ever joining in any sissy-ass gang.

What else is an ex-gangbanger going to do then? Why go to school, of course. They'll be forced to lay down their uzi's and start learning a practical skill, like operating the cash register's touchpad at the drive-thru at MacDonald's. "Hey Pooky, make sure you put extra packets of ketchup in that motherfucka".

* Any opposition from the NRA, I expect could be immediately remedied by simply walking Charleton Heston down any street in East L.A.

Punxsutawney Puss-out!

So today (well, yesterday) is Groundhog Day. That holy mother of bizarre holidays where we look forward to pulling a fat rat out of a hole in the ground so that he can supposedly “predict” what the remaining years winter weather will be like. This year’s prediction: another six weeks of winter. Well, I don’t know about you but I’m fucking convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt!

Umm, did they base this little natural factoid on any actual scientific evidence, or did somebody just spot a reservation for a ‘P. Hog’ on Flight 389 to Aruba leaving from the Punxsutawney Municipal Airport next week?

I’m not exactly sure how any of this ridiculous urban folklore bullshit got started in the first place, but I do know that if I were that unfortunate groundhog who was so rudely roused from my slumber to be rudely yanked out of my warm bed into the cold February air, I too would probably have been startled by my own fucking shadow. Just as I may have been by all the flashing cameras, the large crowd of anxious onlookers, and those assholes in the Windsor knots and top hats for that matter too! What a stupid tradition. I’d be so pissed off at being disturbed that I’d just automatically piss all over their fancy tuxedo coats and leave vicious bite marks in which you could bury all my resulting repressed memories!

So how then did this madness ever come about in the first place anyways? It sounds like something that would have been concocted by C.S. Lewis after one too many pulls off his hookah. Apparently however, after a little research I discovered that this particular lame tradition traverses over centuries of similarly delusional dimwits all humorously worshipping an underground dwelling rodent.

“The very origin of animals waking on specific dates is clouded in the mists of time of many ethnic cultures”.

Pardon? What do they mean “many ethnic cultures”? Pfft! I’d say they all came from the same long genealogical line of idiots if you ask me. It’s as clear as day. What’s so “clouded” about that?

As the old tradition goes: if the groundhog sees his shadow, he regards it as an omen of six more weeks of bad weather and returns to his hole. But conversely, if the day is cloudy and, hence, shadowless, he takes it as a sign of spring and stays above ground instead. So let me get this straight: at some point in time, mankind decided to put his faith in predicting meteorological phenomena with a simple-minded, docile, and extremely jumpy varmint? Shit, that was ever a forward stroke in an age of dawning Enlightenment, was it not?

Where has the Christian Church been while all this has been going on? Man, don’t they oppose and set out to subdue with extreme vengenance exactly this kind of ritual pagan practice? I doubt very seriously that the looking to groundhogs to predict future events, as opposed to the very Creator of the Universe himself, mustn’t have sat very well with the Pope at all! The Christian Church has accused and burned innocent women at the stake for witchcraft, imprisoned intellectuals who had hard-ons for the unchristian notion of a heliocentric universe, and had been responsible for the slaughter of entire races of people simply because they preferred to use a different secret handshake in their church service worship. Yet, somehow this Groundhog Day tradition has continually slipped under the radar of the ruling superiors for Spiritual Fundamentalism for centuries.

Perhaps these groundhogs are actually more clever than which I’m currently giving them credit for. They have in fact afterall, managed to establish a lasting and reputable air of mystery over themselves for centuries like the other infamous institutions as the Knights of the Templar, the Freemasons...or even Deadheads. Those are some pretty fucking smart groundhogs, don’t you think?

Where Groundhog Day really begins to root itself into North American culture is with the German (whom, had carried the tradition that had been passed down from their ancestors, the Teutons, who picked up the practice from Roman legionnaires) settlers that established their homes in the state of Pennsylvania. They then determined that the groundhog, resembling the European hedgehog, was a most intelligent and sensible animal and therefore decided if the sun made an appearance on Feb. 2nd, so wise an animal as the groundhog would see its shadow and hurry back into its underground hole for another six weeks. See what I mean? Completely fucking nuts! Who would ever assume that a groundhog was a most “intelligent and sensible” animal? It digs holes in the ground, raids backyard gardens in the middle of the night, and who may be found electrocuted after trying to chew through underground power lines. That’s an intelligent animal? A groundhog couldn’t generate enough brain waves to power a 12w light bulb.

Absolutely-fucking-nuts.

In more recent modern times, our society has embraced Punxsutawney Phil* as its Ambassador of Bad Weather forecasting. Through recent years, Phil has received more and more attention in the public eye. Beyond merely predicting future seasonal climate changes, Phil has also taken it upon his infinite groundhog wisdom to also deliver prophetic political forecasts as well from the comforts of his home in Gobbler’s Knob, PN. Hey, this is one fucking smart rat remember? So great, now we have to look forward to an obligatory ‘Final Thought’ from a groundhog as well as from Jerry Springer? How intelligent do you feel right now?

Among these noteworthy highlites:

• During prohibition, Phil threatened to impose 60 weeks of winter on the community if he wasn’t allowed a drink. So, if it wasn’t bad enough that we were listening to a groundhog, now we’re listening to a groundhog with a drinking problem.
• In 1958, Phil announced that it was a United States ‘Chucknik’ rather than a Soviet ‘Sputnik’ or ‘Muttnik’ that became the first man-made satellites to orbit the Earth. Huh? Just further proof for the delusional rants of an alcoholic groundhog I guess.
• In 1981, Phil wore a little yellow ribbon in honor of the American hostages in Iran. Awwww, isn’t that cute?
• Phil traveled to Washington, DC in 1986 to meet with President Ronald Reagan. Wow, a groundhog, and a half senile Alzheimer’s sufferer…that must have been a real meeting of the minds huh? There, they were joined by Groundhog President Jim Means, Al Anthony, and Bill Null. Sounds like a real ‘League of Losers’ if you ask me.
• Phil met Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburg in 1987. Governor who?
• Phil appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show in 1995. I’m sure Phil seized the opportunity to get in some good diet tips and to make his recommendation for Oprah’s ‘Book of the Month’ club.
• Phil starred in a largely successful movie with Bill Murray. I guess we can forgive him for that one.

In summation: this fucking alcoholic rat has tasted more of life than I can ever hope to ever experience in own meager lifetime. Where’s the justice in that? Shit, I can be scared of my shadow too! Lord knows I’m on par with the groundhog intellectually anyways.

While we’re at it, why don’t we just collectively throw in the sanity towel and just declare Phil as the supreme ‘Commander in Chief’ of us all and just complete our downward progress toward total madness and ritual paganism? At least I’m confident that Phil has more alert consciousness than the current Pope John Paul II, and definitely more common sense and intelligence than President George Bush.

What the fuck do we have to loose? If this groundhog is so friggin’ prophetic and brilliant, lets put him in charge! At least we could count on ‘ol Punxsutawney Phil to perform as expected at least once a year. It couldn’t possibly be any worse than it is now, unless we decide that we’d rather honor and worship a marmot instead or something.

* Or Wiarton Willie if you’re a Canadian. Apparently, the Mexicans are to fucking smart to put any stock in this horseshit.

Blind Date Feeding Frenzy

(Edited to add as of 02-10-05, that this date never actually occurred as planned and detailed below. The more I thought about it, the more I saw the bad moon on the rise, and so I promptly chickened out. My appologies to the parties involved...it was just safer this way.)

I am being set up on a blind date through an acquaintance at work, and so I have been invited to accompany another couple and some mystery woman to an ‘All-U-Can’ buffet at Casino Niagara at 1:00AM in the morning.

Apart from the obvious anxiety that I am already experiencing about being possibly set up with a girl who may either be related to Bigfoot or who may at least provide Prof. Leakey an instant Mr. Chubber's over having finally discovered a walking example of a Missing Link*, I am also nervous about having to appear “charming” or “interesting” while dining at a four-star late-night catered buffet spread. Not exactly what I would consider to be the preferred setting to bloom romance. But I’ll get back to that momentarily...

The good news is that I will now have the perfect excuse to finally clean up the apartment and reestablish order to my kingdom. A task I have meaning to complete for only the past six months now. I will need to slay all the dust bunnies roaming free on the living room range, peel away the stuck pubes from around the bottom of the toilet bowl like I was peeling a porcelain banana, clip the cats toenails so he doesn’t accidentally inflict any mortal wounds, sandblast the mould from the bathroom curtain, harvest all the dirty balled up socks under my bed that look like a crop of ripe funky cauliflower, and “power suck” the cat hair out of the throw pillows with an industrial vacuum. It will no doubt be a monumental undertaking that would even have Mr. Belvedere tossing in the dishcloth!

Now getting back to my concern regarding proper blind date ambiance; who’s fucking idea was it to plan this thing at a ritzy late night casino buffet anyways? I'm thankful for the opportunity to let my freak flag fly and strut my shit, but give a guy a break! AN 'ALL-U-CAN-EAT' BUFFET? I’m not so sure this is such a good idea for me, much less two people who will inevitably be both trying to make a positive impression on each other, and who will also be closely observing and scrutinizing each other for possible character flaws. It’s a “BLIND DATE” after all.

I guess my point is that an ‘All-U-Can’ buffet may not exactly be the ideal place for a large man like myself to really shine, if you know what I mean. Isn’t the ultimate purpose and prime directive of any successful Blind Date to be able to communicate and establish a common ground beyond “pass the paprikosh, will you darling?” We are going to be expected to humor each other and make efforts to flirt, amuse, humor, and generally get to know and enjoy one another's company. I expect this may be difficult when you’re in the process of stuffing your face with an entire Pu-Pu Platter with your mouth working complacently like a grazing hippopotamus.

“No time to talk. Must eat!”

I am worried that this situation is a potential blind date super nova ready to explode. Given that a buffet isn’t the most appropriate environment to impress potential mates, males in the presence of unlimited food are at an automatic disadvantage socially. Once our eyes lock on the prize, it’s hard to focus anywhere but on the mountains of food waiting at the buffet table that is laid out before us endlessly like a medieval Arthurian feast.

Oh yeah, this is shaping up to be a true dating disaster for sure! What if I just snap and loose my dignity and self control altogether and just begin attacking that buffet table like a starving hyena? How charming will I come across then?

“Get the fuck out of my way and let me at that salad bar, princes. I’m going to put a dent in that delicious motherfucker, post haste! So no talkie now sweetheart, Daddy’s chewing.”

Even if I pull off the unimaginable and manage to exercise complete self control over my primal feeding instincts and conduct myself with all the class and candor of an Elizabethan Lord, I would still doubt very highly that the atmosphere itself would lend itself to anything more “romantic” than buffing the water spots off each others silverware before dinner. I mean, how much joie d’viv can a casino buffet have exactly?

Loud-mouthed oil tycoons in ten gallons hats, tired looking professional girls touching up thier lipstick in dark corners, hypnotized widows staring at enlarged Keno screens, and Hung Chow Fat vacationing from Tokyo kareoking to Tom Jone's 'Sex Bomb' in the 'Players Lounge'. In the dining room, there would be groups of people hunched over mounded plates, all staring off into the florescent track lighting in silence, except for the steady grinding and chewing like a magnified drone of a plagued field of grasshoppers devouring some poor farmer’s crop; their mandibles working overtime with concentrated fixation. How hot is that?

Christ, by the time I’ve tired of stuffing fistfuls of hearty fare into my mouth, unloosed my belt buckel, and my breathing has slowed enough so that I can speak, what kind of flirt am I going to be exactly? I expect at that point that I’d feel about as frisky as road kill.

“Hey baby, break out the Jergin’s Lotion. I’m ready for dessert!”

I don’t know about you, but I’m sure I’m not about to feel too sexy and desirable after a four hour feeding frenzy. At this point in the date, it’d be damn near impossible to so much as even achieve wood if need be when you also happen to be suffering from extreme gastronomic pains, and your sphincter is working like the bellows at a Blacksmith’s shop.

* Not to mention that it also means I will have to miss my beloved 'Myth Busters' aired on the Discovery Network.