The Great Kraut Krote Caper

In something right out of the pages of Revelations, German scientists are baffled by an unexplained natural phenomenon occurring in and around a lake in the Altona district of Hamburg.

More than 1,000 toads have puffed up and exploded in recent weeks, leaving parks surrounding the lake looking like another WWII battlefield, as well as attracting large numbers of French chefs and cuisine afficienado's out of the surrounding countryside.

There is still no explanation for what’s causing the amphibious explosions. Both the ponds water and body parts of the toads have been tested, but scientists and naturalists have been unable to find a bacteria or virus that would cause the toads to swell up and pop. Nor has anybody been able to relate this to any other similar occurrence elsewhere; and I’m sure that thousands of exploding toads, their bodies swelling up like balloons until their stomachs suddenly burst, would stand out in peoples memories!

How fucking creepy is that?

The ponds water quality is no better or worse than any of the other bodies of water in Hamburg, the toads did not appear to have a disease, and a laboratory in Berlin has ruled out the possibility that it was a fungus that made its way from South America.

Biologists have come up with several other theories that have all been ruled out, apart from one. Testing will likely continue, and city residents have been warned to stay away from the pond. The last thing the Germans need is their people beginning to explode along the banks and in the streets!

The one theory that is still being investigated is that the frogs are being pierced by indigenous crows who are pecking them with their beaks between the amphibians chest and abdominal cavity, in order to eat their livers. The toads swell up as a form of self-defense. But when their livers are taken away and their stomachs are punctured, their blood vessels explode, their lungs collapse and the other organs ooze out.

Veterinarian, Frank Mutschmann, claims that crows are extremely intelligent animals and have quickly adapted on how to eat toad livers. And we thought only the French had the good foresight on these delicacies!

He also states that between three and five crows could easily kill around 100 toads – the area around the Altona Lake district, has already been nicknamed the “Pond of Death”.

I am still unconvinced however. I am leaning towards the supernatural to explain this bizarre combustible amphibian phenomenon. In fact, I say that this is a sure sign that Armageddon is brewing on the horizon.

Germany, the literal breeding ground of evil in the past century or so, has become the Ground Zero for global apocalypse. Now that a new German Pope has been elected, the whole sequence of events leading towards the prophesied ultimate demise of mankind has been triggered, and now toads are also exploding to signal the arrival of the Rapture.

This was probably all detailed incognito-like in the back pages of the Bible somewhere:

“Yea, when the Omelet King is elected to lead the faithful sinners, the amphibians shall rise from the waters and rupture to signal the return of the Anti-Christ.”

Either that, or these toads are part of some new terrorist weapon unleashed on the innocent German civilians to wreck havoc and terror on homeland soil.

Maybe it would be more prudent to assume the toads are all part of some elite Taliban operatives enlisted as secret suicide bombers and are but one new means of bringing holy Jihad to the Western Infidel.

Maybe instead of running laboratory testing on the toads in question, we should be probing their personal histories for potential links and ties to known organized terrorist organizations. At the very least, check to see if they have little beards or are wearing little turbans.

It’s possible that Kermit has been serving as a planted Taliban spy all this time, living among us and reporting back on our weaknesses and vulnerabilities to the evil leaders of global chaos. That would make him the Ayman al-Zawahiri of the amphibious terrorist brigade.

The Minute Rice Project

Leaders of the controversial civilian border patrol movement known as the ‘Minuteman Project’ announced its plans to expand patrols in southern Arizona and start “copycat” efforts across the country by next fall.

Minuteman organizers plan to draft a guide on how to start a civilian border patrol and “franchise” the movement in California, Texas, New Mexico, Michigan and Idaho by next October.

Pardon? Michigan and Idaho? Are they concerned about their precious store of potatoes or something?

What the fuck have we Canadians ever done?

Isn’t this known as the world’s largest unprotected border? How many Canadians are trying to slip across the border into the States – umm, none? Why the fuck do you need to patrol that border unless they’re looking to recover drunken American high school kids slipping back across the border after an evening binging on strong Canadian beer – c’mon, please!

Why are Americans so suspicious of their peaceful neighbor to the north and so quick to hold us responsible for every failing that occurs within it’s own clearly-marked borders?

Just look at the long list of disproved accusations: The Ohio Blackout, the 9/11 attacks, Monkey Pox, Mad Cow disease, SARS, I could go on and on. Shit, I can’t bring a baloney sandwich across the border without being subject to a full body cavity search*! They even have gassy, poorly drawn cartoon characters mockingly singing about advising Americans everywhere to simply "Blame Canada". We’re like the little retarded brother that they simply love to torment!

"WEll, you're not the boss of me!"

In fact, if anything we Canadians should be more suspicious of you Americans! You've been jealous of your slower, passive northern neighbor from the get go - remember the Alaskan Panhandle? And who’s invaded who twice before only to have their sorry asses kicked back across the Niagara River by a bunch of lowly frontier farmers? You don't teach that in your history classes I bet! Not to mention bombarding us with your media, big business, moral ethics (like Canadians were ever going to accept from George Bush that smoking pot was some will-corrupting evil), foreign policy, fashion trends, etc.

It’s like having Big Brother living right beside you with a telescopic lens trained right on your front window.

We import your manufactured goods, hand over our harvests, chop down our trees, weather out your acid rain, duck our heads whenever a test missile soars by, keep our mouths shut when our soldiers are killed in training exercises, strap on our blue helmets when the going gets tough and the tough has long since pulled out, fork over our flu vaccinations, and now when we wander too close to our border we have to tolerate Billy Bob Thorton watching our every move through a pair of binoculars?

WTF?

Organizers maintain that the project is only exercising their Second Amendment right to form a civilians militia so to protect against decisions made by the government that are not in the best interests of the people. So then, the best interests of the people are to protect themselves again your typical tipsy Sioux Ste Marie resident swinging a bottle of Alexanber Keith's?

Horseshit! It’s an excuse to affix things to their belts so that they sound like an entire flamenco percussion section as they sneak across the Arizona dessert, and play G.I. Joe before returning back to their minimum wage job at the local Exxon station or Sonic Burger and calling up their Capital One customer service representatives on their lunch break to bitch about 'Past Due' fees.

Yeah – there’s a bright future we Canadians aspire to sneak off to!

Maybe poor poverty-stricken Geraldo Sanchez is itching to ditch his taco stand and make his way covertly into the American homeland, but I’ll wager that most Canadians are still content to stay at home and eat our back bacon sandwiches where nobody is trying to bomb us, thank you very much!

To us – the whole Minuteman Project just sounds like some new brand of frozen TV dinner.

* And while I’m on the the topic, whats with oranges exactly? Why is it so forbidden to bring oranges across the border into the States? How many orange trees do they think we have here in Canada? Hey, all the oranges we have come from AMERICA in the first place! Why can’t we just bring them back across the same border again? Whats wrong with these particular oranges that they're so eager to keep out? So many questions.

"Go ahead, make my day, Sonny!"

In a nod back to the good ‘ol ways of the Wild West, where one could simply “shoot first and ask questions later”, Gov. Jeb Bush signed a law Tuesday to make it clear that people have a right to meet “force with force” to defend themselves out on the street.

Oh, great – suddenly everybody is transformed into James Bond!

This measure, which passed the Legislature overwhelmingly earlier this year, says that people who are under attack do not have to retreat before responding. They have the right to “meet force with force”, including deadly force even if they could have fled instead, if they reasonably believe it’s necessary to do so to prevent death or great bodily harm.

This “Castle Doctrine” – the notion that enemies invade personal space at their own peril – that Florida residents already have in their homes; will now be allowed to extend to public spaces, such as the street, in their cars, or at their businesses.

That’s just fucking swell! The one state that’s most full of grumpy, paranoid, conservative, seniors is also granting the “right of might” in handling their own personal territorial disputes.

There are some days that I am just SO proud to be a Canadian!

To my mind, it’ll be like the geriatric ‘Beyond Thunderdome’ by the end of the year as timid and overly suspicious senior citizens will take to packing heat when they trundle off to the Bingo Hall, or maybe end up mowing down the foreign neighbor with a machine gun when he happens to step foot on their property to steal the newspaper.

Jeb Bush further supported the bill by stating: “When you’re in a position where you’re being threatened – to have to retreat and put yourself in a very precarious position, you know, it defies common sense”.

Perfect. We’re taking advise on “common sense” from a member of the Bush family. It’s a crazy world sometimes folks.

The bill is publicly backed by the National Rifle Association who is hoping that this passed bill will snowball over into other states currently governed by more conservative approaches to gun control.

There’s another real fucking surprise; the bill is supported by those who have all the guns in the first place!

It’s not likely that somebody who doesn’t own a gun is going to employ lethal force and bludgeon an intruder to death with a banana, is it?

NRA members would support the use of nuclear weapons for private home security if it gave them an excuse to make a big bang in their front yard!

In the mid-80’s, the NRA chose Florida to launch a push for “conceal carry” or “right-to-carry” laws which allow states to issue permits for the residents to carry firearms.

Fuck, even Mickey Mouse has a loaded firearm strapped to his thigh when he strolls around the Magic Kingdom!

Opposers to the bill argue that the measure is so broad that it will encourage disputes between neighbors, parents at soccer games, drinking buddies, or those waiting for hours in line at the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ amusement ride in the 107-degree heat to escalate into 'Shootouts at the O.K. Corral'.

I know that if I were ever to carry and use a loaded firearm, there would inevitably be a wake of corpses behind me as I made my way down the street. Anybody who I didn’t like the looks of, got in my way, or looked at me the wrong way would end with a bullet between the eyes! The people at the deli who are too slow to make up their mind, those who wear WWE wrestling shirts with wristbands, , people who throw elbows instead of excusing their way past politely, people who clearly have more than eight items at the Express Aisle checkout, the dipshit who keeps putting pickles on my Big Macs, the lady who continually allowed her poodle to shit in my garden, or some slow moving senior who didn’t make it across the street with the crosswalk in time:

“HONEST, YOUR HONOR! IT WAS ALL IN SELF DEFENSE!”

Suddenly the stakes jus became a bit higher for Mormons and door-to-door salesmen.

I can see where this could be a very valid concern. I understand perfectly that this bill intends to give the power in a crisis situation back to the victim as opposed to the criminal. However, how do you prove that a crime was committed in the first place, particularly one that required deadly force, when one of the parties involved is sixteen feet underground?

That’s kind of a one-sided case isn’t it?

Shit, everyone will be claiming “self defense” – dead men don’t object in court! Confrontations would be settled over who had the better aim, instead of applying ones common sense.

I think that this bill assumes that moral and law-abiding citizens will just simply know when the appropriate time to use deadly force is necessary. Although, when the adrenaline “fight or flight” impulses are released into your system in a single heartbeat, I’m not so sure that even decent law-abiding citizens will always be able to deny their itchy trigger fingers %100 per cent of the time.

Florida NRA lobbyist, and former NRA ex-president, Marion P. Hammer*, dismissed cristics by suggesting that the current law forces Floridians to make split-second decisions about a criminals intent, which NRA lobbyists like to note was deemed impossible generations ago by legendary Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes. “Detached reflection cannot be demanded in the presence of an uplifted knife”, Holmes said in one of his most oft-quoted pronouncements.

What the fuck does that mean exactly – “detached reflection”?

It hardly sounds like anything that’s going to get Dirty Harry’s panties in a bunch, does it?

Besides, we’re not talking about uplifted knives here – we’re talking about loaded fucking weapons that leave holes the size of a cherry-pot pie in your chest! At least with knives there’s going to be some form of serious thought and evaluation processes taking place before somebody willingly commits themselves to defending their space in a “mano-e-mano” combat; or else retreat in a flurry of panicked screams and tears like a sissy little school girl.

With a gun one only needs to flex a single digit. Somehow, I find that a little more disconcerting.

So, in lieu of this new bill being passed, I have decided that I can officially add the State of Florida to my list of places that I will NEVER go to on vacation.

By the sounds of it, I’d be safer vacationing in downtown Beirut!

* With a name that was perfectly apt for such a NRA position, Marion P. Hammer went on to solidly defeat election rival Chester Q. Pussystick.

The Freakshow Rides Again!

In the wake of the media cacophony revolving around the Schiavo case, the entire mystery catalogue of holy Popestock ceremonies, the continuing Tsunami Relief updates, and the whole circus that was the marriage of Princes Charles and Camilla Parker Bowes, the popular media flood gates can once again open up and let loose with the complete watershed that is the child molestation case of one, Michael “Freakshow” Jackson.

Despite the finicky television coverage as of late, the whole trial juggernaught has continued to chug forward as is just reaching a crescendo of dubious characters from his past claiming that they have witnessed him in compromising or scandalous situations with boys.

Moral society is licking its meaty chops in anticipation of the celebrity roasting that the prosecution is about to unleash upon poor Wacko Jacko.

Since Judge Rodney Melville allowed the prosecution to introduce prior lurid and sketchy accusations of molestation involving five young boys from the pop stars past. Providing testimony to these previous accusations is a whole parade of former disgruntled employees including some who admitted that they stole from their boss, sold their accounts of events to tabloid journalists for thousands of dollars, changed their testimony when money came knocking and lied to investigators.

Shit, even the man who used to fetch Jackson his French fries was once a purveyor of Internet pornography!

WHOO-BOY – things sure are about to get juicy*!

Hey, is anybody else beginning to think that Jackson may not be the best judge of character, or employer for that matter? I’m getting the distinct impression that he’s not exactly a “people person”.

These tainted testimonies include such elegant allegations that the self-described Peter Pan, the man who refuses to grow up, fondling more prepubescent gonads than the headmaster at an all boys Catholic boarding school. Jackson has handled more young balls than a preschool basketball point guard!

An ex-maid is even claiming that she witnessed Jackson exchanging kisses with and fondling the genitals of Macauly Culkin in his library while playing video games. It would seem that ‘ol Michael had more on his mind at the time than just 'Donkey Kong'.

And, in something right out of George Michael’s playbook, a former security guard also reports seeing Jackson perform oral sex on one of his boys in a bathroom at Neverland Ranch.

Besides these, there are countless other reports of such fondling, molesting, and plying of liquor than you can shake a bleached, streamlined penis at.

Shit, to a desperate, socially stunted person like myself, Neverland Ranch is more and more seeming like the perfect singles vacation getaway!

Enjoy the rollercoaster and maybe a lama ride on the Ranch’s amusement park, before getting served a few complimentary cocktails courtesy of the bar, and perhaps either a blowjob or a little grope n’ tickle during a spirited round of 'Super Mario Brothers' before returning back to my sleeping bag on the bedroom floor.

That’s more action than I’ve ever experienced in my entire life! My poor lonely heart is likely to explode from sheer overstimulation!

How does one sign up for one of these “Molestation Tours” to Neverland Ranch anyways – is there some kind of perverts discount?

* Which may not be the best choice of terminology, now that I think about it, considering that we are dealing with the boinking of young boys.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Pope?

It seems that the whole tidal proceedings surrounding the Vatican’s most recent “Popestock” festivities is drawing to somewhat of a close as the assembled cardinals of the Catholic Church have now finally finished deliberating over who will be elected as the next Pope to replace the recently deceased Pope John Paul II.

It’s only now that I am actually digesting all that I have witnessed on those endless CNN broadcasts over the past week and a half and formulated my own impressions of this said media madness.

After only a quick two days of careful deliberation, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elected by his papal peers as the new 265th Pope of the Roman Catholic Church and it’s 1.1 billions followers worldwide.

From atop a thin copper chimney atop the Sistine Chapel at 5:49PM local time, wisps of smoke announced to the tens of thousands of faithful Catholics gathered below in St. Peters Square that a new Pope had indeed been elected.

Was it black smoke; was it white smoke; was it gray smoke; or did the Vatican chefs just burn dinner?

You’d think after two thousand years of existence through the ages, that the Church would have by now devised a more clear and precise way in which to signal the new Pope to the world instead of using non-descript puffs of smoke that would confuse even the most astute Native American Chief.

As it is now, and as it has always been, once the votes have been counted, the ballots are burned. If there has been no winner, a chemical is mixed with the ballots to produce black smoke when they are burned. Sight of the black smoke emerging from the roof of the Vatican palace tells those waiting outside that a pope has not been selected. When a winner has been selected, the ballots are burned alone and the white smoke indicates that there is a new pope (either that, or that a wagon train is making it’s way over the prairies, and so to sharpen your tomahawks).

This whole smoke thing seems a little confused, and therefore antiquated to me. Why not actually usher in the Age of Technology into the Church and install more accurate and easy-to-read signal lights on top of the Vatican instead - or maybe even a huge digital jumbo ‘Popetron’ screen perhaps? At the very least, I was hoping for scantily clad cardinals in Marti Gras beads baring their chests on overhanging balconies and pumping the air with their fists to a hard driving techno beat.

I mean, this is a pretty major significant event in the history of the world, and yet, the best they can do to mark this momentous occasion is with a simple puff of smoke? What kind of a pyrotechnic display is that? I want fireworks, pinwheels, and entire symphonies of fire in the sky – not little wafts of smoke that may, or may not, be white.

Whoopee-fucking-shit! That's about as thrilling as a sparrow fart.

So it was in this way that the new pontiff was announced to the world to lead Catholics into the next era of Christiandom. And who did the cardinals elect after only two days of deliberation – 78-year-old German Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the guardian of the church’s doctrine for the past 24 years! Ratzinger, as described by his colleges is an “Enforcer of the Faith” and a strict supporter of proper traditional Catholic doctrine.

Great, just what the world needs – another German conservative!

Have the cardinals lost their collective mind during those 48 hours? How many positive German onservative has the world played witnessed to in the last 100 years alone? Apart from a particular crazy Kaiser, an over-disgruntled house painter, and a guy who is too fixated on little boy’s penises to altogether healthy, when has the world ever seen anything good or "holy" from a German conservative?

Don’t we ever learn? Shit, why not just elect Courtney Love?

Even in his new media photographs on the front pages of newspapers and magazines, he has a striking resemblance to the cloaked Emperor from ‘Return of the Jedi’. There is just something instantly unsettling about the man like he could use the Dark Side of the Force on us at any moment!

Cardinal Ratzinger was known in the Vatican circles as “Mr. No!”* for his strict defending of the Catholic faith and his stand against divorce, communism, gay marriage or for members of the clergy, women in the clergy, birth control, and even rock music!

Wonderful. Sounds like we’re in for a real party!

However, his possible stance against the abominable Reality Television plague could be a campaign to maybe even revitalize some sense of lost faith in even my skeptical heathen ass!

Upon being elected the new Pope by the papacy, Cardinal Ratzinger was required to choose the name he wants to carry for the head of the Roman Catholic Church. His choice was expected to reflect his own theological or personal preferences rather than dogma, and would no doubt be studied by the Vatican for signs of how he intends to take forward the papacy.

Ratzinger announced to his loyal followers that from that moment onward, he would be recognized as Pope Benedict XVI.

Wait, why is he naming himself after an omelet? That can’t be a good omen to begin ones pontificate with, could it?

It’s normally customary to choose another holy moniker to be recognized by, whether it’s a Latinized form of his Christian name, a saint’s name, or the name of an earlier pope with such charming warming names as Agapitus, Anastasius, Calixtus, Pius, Innocent, Clement, Gelacius, Hilarus, Hormisdas, Simplicius, or Sixtus - there was even a Pope Lando for fuck sakes!

There’s just something daunting about somebody who instead chose broken eggs as the motif to begin his reign of the Catholic faith.

Did anybody else just get a chill?

* Which to my mind makes me think automatically of a stereotypical Ian Fleming-style Bond villain.

Hell Is Bubbling Over for Dinner

(The continuing saga of this blocked up bathroom drain can be picked up here 24 hours later)

“Get ready little lady, Hell is coming for breakfast.”
~ Lone Watie (Outlaw Josie Wales)

The other night, Hell may have been a little late in getting over for breakfast, but it sure did make it's arrival in time for the evenings BBQ! And so, an otherwise pleasant evening of hotdogs, bong hits, and the newly released video of Ray on DVD was interrupted when my humble abode was invaded by a rich and potent stink emanating from my bathroom.

Uh-oh - the gods have been angered!

Now I admit, this is not altogether a rare occurrence in my bathroom exactly – in fact, some stenches from my bathroom have been known to bloom and ripen for days like some beautiful tropical flower – but this particular stench was different from anything that could be produced by myself, or any other human being for that matter.

This stench was purely demonic. It was so large it had it’s own area code!

Upon closer inspection on the stinks whereabouts, I discovered that Hell had decided to erupt from my bathtub drain in a cesspool of dark smelly matter the likes I have never seen before! It was like a Jurassic period tar pit had developed in my bathroom and began to fear that I might find my cat sooner or later stuck in it’s bubbling black ooze and struggling like a miniature furry brontosaurus trying to prevent itself from being sucked beneath it’s gooey surface.

Yeah, I know – I worry too much. But it stinks; it’s gross; and I want it gone immediately!

Why me? It’s like suddenly I have the Amityville pit growing in my bathroom. If I even so much a see a single fly crawling across any of my windows – I’m fucking moving apartments in a heartbeat!

To me, this is the closest thing to a natural disaster that I have ever experienced.

I’m expecting World Vision helicopters to soon begin air lifting emergency supplies to my rooftop, and to find Anderson Cooper camped out on my front doorstep looking for his next exclusive late-breaking CNN report.

“The black tide just kept rising so that soon it became hard to breath – like I was hyperventilating in a city sewer or something! I feel lucky to be alive right now, Anderson!”

Once the initial shock and frustration had passed – I began to assess the situation more constructively.

First, I attacked the drain with a plunger like I was grappling with the control stick of a plummeting B-52 bomber – but that only seemed to anger the sewer gods even further.

Next, I resorted to offering sacrifices in the way of entire bottles of Draino, which crackled and fizzled like frying bacon as it dissolved the initial layers of the obstructing foulness away from the drainpipe and the leftover sediment left on the bottom of the tub. But still, to no avail.

So now, mixed with the noxious sewer stench of accumulated rotten schmeckle*, is this toxic cloud of chemical fumes that could rival anything that ever blew across the fields at Ypres.

My cat must be getting higher than a motherfucker while I’m at work.

And again the worry sets in: what if these sewer stenches and chemical fumes are poisonous and are in fact causing him to develop webbed paws or a second tail or something? What if I come home one day to find that beloved companion has been transformed into some kind of mutant X-Kitty, who is capable of melting me into a fleshy puddle with the super laser beams shot from his hungry eyes should I ever be too late for his feeding time?

Maybe, the fumes are addictive and he’s unwittingly becoming a cat junkie who sill soon resort to sniffing the caps off Liquid-Plumer containers in the closet in order to maintain his buzz.

After these two initial home remedies both failed miserably – I am now at a complete loss as to what to do next. I am now leaning towards plastic explosive and a long fuse.

I see no other viable options…

* “Schmeckle” is a word that I just invented. It just sounds like an appropriate term in reference to nasty, smelly obstructing clots of hair and other drainage refuse that can breed and lodge in ones drainpipes.

Fat People of the World - REJOICE!

I have good news for all my tubby brothers and sisters of planet Earth – the rest of you annoying beautiful people pay no mind – our love handles are not in vain! That’s right, stock up on your Hostess Twinkies and Ring-Ding’s because government officials are now announcing that packing on the pounds is not nearly as deadly as everybody originally thought.

Not since scientists announced that wacking off could actually help prevent prostate cancer has there been such a miraculous herald to the world.

Is that the sound of angels singing I hear?

Remember when Freddie Mercury asked us who wanted to live forever? Well, be proud and raise your arms my fellow lard asses, and then dip them back into your greasy bucket of KFC – BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO LIVE TO FOREVER!

I can almost hear the stocks in McDonalds Inc. spring up like tulips in April!

According to a new calculation by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), modestly overweight people were found to have a lower risk of death than those of normal weight.

“BOO-YA, YOU SKINNY BITCHES! YOU CAN TAKE THOSE CARDBOARD RICE CAKES AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR ASS!”

Goodbye fad diets; hello Poptarts!

The CDC reported that obesity accounts for 25,814 deaths a year in the United States. As recently as this past January, the CDC came up with an estimate 14 times higher: 365,000 deaths. Oops! How do you make an error in calculation that far out of wack, unless those low-card, low-sodium, low-fat, low-taste bran muffins they’re feeding their lab statisticians in the morning aren’t supplying enough of the required amounts of vitamins and minerals to make their brains capable of these simple tasks and configurations?

It almost sounds to me that there has been some kind of conspiracy to keep us Two-Ton Tony’s from ever truly feeling secure about our bodies. Well, in your face health freaks!

According to the new calculation, obesity ranks No. 7 instead of No. 2 among the leading preventable causes of death.

"WOO-HOO! WE’RE NUMBER SEVEN! WE’RE NUMBER SEVEN! PASS THE CHEESE STEAK!”

Our day of reckoning has come and all us chunky bastards can finally have our day in the sun, shamelessly expose all our man boobs and cellulite Jell-o thighs, and just rejoice over all things deep-fried and fattening.

Life is beautiful indeed!

This new analysis found that obesity – being extremely overweight – is indisputably lethal. But like several recent smaller studies have shown, people who are only modestly overweight have a lower risk of death than those of normal weight. So these studies seem to indicate that what we deem as “normal” body size may, in fact, be set too low for today’s populations.

Now, apart from those REALLY fat motherfuckers who must really and truly not give a shit about their bodies or dignity, this is like discovering the Fountain of Youth!

It's like the sacred "Magna-Cupcake" for those of us pudgy people who are just a little below the normal accepted standards associated with being “fit”. Suddenly, it’s actually a health benefit to have the type of chest that you could eat soup off of. I HAVE BEEN BORN AGAIN!

Also, the study found that people classified as overweight are eating better than they used to. That should have been obvious to those in the medical science field automatically. Just compare the available meal options on any regular restaurant menu to the “Healthy Lifestyles” options provided. The proof is in the rich steaming piles of mashed potatoes and gravy. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that the person working their way through a rack of BBQ ribs is eating better and exorcizing his bodily functions better than the person eating the all-organic tree bark platter on a bed of fresh-cut grass.

There is a reason why we humans outlive groundhogs and other natural herbivores – we eat better!

A giant sea turtle doesn’t manage to exist for a hundred plus years without developing a little tolerance for pollution and plastic beverage rings. Likewise, we overweight citizens have trained and conditioned out chunky bodies to better endure all the necessary delicious crap that we crave constantly, not only to keep us alive, but to prevent our voluptuous asses from falling victim to Natural Selection too soon in the game of life!

Let the skinny Healthzoids have their Bataan Death Marches at 6:30AM; I’ll take my Triumvirate of Egg McMuffins in bed, thank you very much!

Last year, a CDC study listed the leading causes of preventable death in order as tobacco; poor diet and inactivity, leading to excess weight; alcohol; germs; toxins and pollutants; car crashes; guns; risky sexual behavior; and illicit drugs. So, this new study now puts us behind poor drivers and dopers.

“YOU GO, FAT GIRL!”

Last year, the CDC issued a study that attributed 400,000 deaths a year to mostly weight-related causes and even said that excess weight would soon overtake tobacco as the top U.S. killer.

After scientists inside and outside the agency questioned the figure, the CDC admitted to making a calculation error* and lowered its estimate three months ago to 365,000. The new study attributes 111,909 deaths to obesity, but then subtracts the benefits of being modestly overweight, and therefore arrives at the 25,814 figure.

Even despite this confession of a glaring miscalculation, CDC Director Dr. Juice Gerberding said that because of the surrounding uncertainty in calculating the health effects of being overweight, the CDC is not going to use the new figure of 25,814 in its public awareness campaigns. And its not going to scale down its fight against obesity.

Pardon?

That almost sounds like the CDC is intentionally targeting us modestly overweight people for some kind of anti-fat propaganda. What about the addicts, the alcoholics, and the perverts? Are they not worthy of more campaign focus now in light of the fact that we modestly overweight people are so uber-healthy now? What’s wrong with a few extra malomars when there are drunken junkies out there having unprotected sex?

Won’t somebody PU-LEASE think of the fat people?

For years, the government has spent billions fighting obesity and publicizing the message that two out of three American adults are overweight or obese, and at higher risk for heart disease, arthritis and diabetes**. So why not allow us chubby-bodied the opportunity to revel in our rolls of protective fat, that circumnavigate our bodies like rings around a planet.

"I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT – AND IT IS FINGER-LICKING GOOD, BABY!"

By all means, continue to target all those grossly obese motherfuckers, and pick them off like grazing Buffalo from a passing train for all I care, just leave us pleasantly plump people alone!

These two studies have raised questions about what definitions to use for obesity and “where to draw the line”.

Personally, I feel that you should consider yourself dangerously obese if you can outrun, say, a Mars bar – but I can see how that may be somewhat of a gray area analytically. The tried-and-true method that I use to keep my own modestly overweight frame from expanding too readably into the realms of Orca the Whale is, as long as I can still continue to see my penis past my stomach when I look down with my back straight – I’m fine!

The moment that my pink fleshy member fades behind my rolls of body fat like a setting sun against a rotund horizon – I’ve crossed over into obesity and will once again have to take a rain check on that second helping of pudding.

It’s not much of a scientific calculation process – but it keeps me honest.

* Which may, or may not, have something to do with a shitty tasting bran muffin.

** Which is on the rise among people of all weight categories anyways.

"Four and Twenty Potheads Baked In a Pie."

Today is the all-haloed day among smokers, tokers, dopers, reefers, stones, and potheads everywhere – the infamous “4/20” holiday.

Odd terms sneak into our language every now and then, and this is one of the oddest. Everyone who considers himself in the know about the drug subculture has heard that '420' has something to do with illegal drug use, but when you press them, they never seem to know why, or even what the term supposedly signifies.

Over the generations, this term has assumed a wide range of wild connotations that attempt to explain this slacker’s numerical phenomenon: the penal code section for marijuana use in California (nope); the Los Angeles or New York police radio code for marijuana smoking in progress (nope); it's the number of chemical compounds in marijuana (nope); April 20 is the date that Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, or Janis Joplin died (nope); the 20th of April is the best time to plant marijuana (nope); when the Grateful Dead toured, they always stayed in Room 420 (nope); April 20th, or 4-20, is the birthday of Adolf Hitler (yeah – there’s a reason to light up!); the massacre of 13 victims at Columbine High School in Colorado took place on 20 April 1999 (once again – this is hardly celebration-worthy); the Beatles song "Come Together" is 4:20 in length (purely coincidence).

Spurious etymologies and uncertain definition aside, '420' has slipped into a position of semi-respectability within the English lexicon. Basically, '420' is used as a generic way of declaring one likes to use marijuana or just as a term for the substance itself. Its earliest connotation of having to do with the time a certain group of students congregated to smoke wacky-tobaccy is unknown to the overwhelming majority of those who now employ the term.

On this sacred of days, you can predict to see the all names of in-the-closet marijuana users being listed suspiciously appear on all employers “absent-without-leave” and “absenteeism” lists everywhere as they attempt to steal a bonus holiday in which to waste in front of the boob-tube with their rolling papers and their packages of empty calorie snacks.

Suddenly everyone’s glaucoma flares up and they develop the instant need to sit on their couches and do bong hits to reruns of ‘Saved By the Bell’.

Woo-ha! "PARTY ON" - you weedy warriors!

What a way to consolidate your collective liberal attitudes to the world; getting high and doing as little as possible. Hey, this is the REAL WORLD you jerkoffs, not “Skip Day” back in Grade 9! The rest of us normal functioning pot enthusiasts don’t relish the opportunity to cover for your lazy, stoned ass just because you want to stay home and read your ‘Fabulous Furry Freak Bros.” comics!

On the '420' holiday, you can see that everyone's eyeballs are glazed over like stale coconut macaroon's, and they wander around aimlessly in a daze while mindlessly munching on handfuls of trail mix as if they don't have a single care in the world. Suddenly, everyone becomes Willie Nelson! For the more functionable and responsible of daily dopers, this can be intolerable and frustrating as the world that we have customized ourselves to dealing with over years of regulated frequent dosages, becomes that much more stupid.

"Get out of my way, hophead! You're choosing a donut, not philosophically pondering over which style of donut best explifies your stance on world environmentalism. Step aside!"

Honestly, why even leave the house?

On this day, I am even nervous about walking to work lest I should be creamed by a min-van because Jimmy Straightlace suddenly thought he’d be all “rebellious”, and blaze up on the drive into the office.

I can literally smell the wafts of pot smoke coming from the windows of passing cars on my walk to work! Now I’m not saying don’t go to work high; I’m just saying: “use public-fucking-transportation, you half-baked dimwits!”

Think about the rest of us for whom this is not really a big deal.

I don’t want my own buzz ruined after having to call in “absent-without-leave” because I’ve been accidentally mowed down by somebody experiencing altered depth perception problems behind the wheel of their automobile. There is a perfectly good reason they recommend people NOT to operate heavy machinery while in those states – and that’s to protect the smarter, more responsible stoners like myself!

Is that stranger than fiction, or what?

I don’t really understand the whole big ‘420’ hoopla anyways. 4/20. 4:20, 2:40, 2:04, who gives a shit - are we gonna get high or what?

What’s all the unnecessary symbolism for?

But in the spirit of popular educated “marijuanaisms”, I would like to submit the following for consideration regarding the significance of the ‘420’ cultural phenomenon:

“I had encountered at least one of those curious mirage-plants about which so many of our men told stories. Anderson had warned me of them, and described their appearance very closely—the shaggy stalk, the spiky leaves, and the mottled blossoms whose gaseous dream-breeding exhalations penetrate every existing make of mask...Although everything was spinning perilously, I tried to start in the right direction and hack my way ahead. My route must have been far from straight, for it seemed hours before I was free of the mirage-plant's pervasive influence. Gradually the dancing lights began to disappear, and the shimmering spectral scenery began to assume the aspect of solidity. When I did get wholly clear I looked at my watch and was astonished to find that the time was only 4:20. Though eternities had seemed to pass, the whole experience could have consumed little more than a half-hour.”

~ H.P. Lovecraft; "In the Walls of Eryx"; first published in Weird Tales [34, No. 4 (October 1939), pp50-68].

Penal Testimony

There are so many old tattered magazines at work that I’m afraid that one day I’m going to be buried alive under the massive weight of thousands of old copies of Vogue, Flare, In Touch, and every other useless woman’s fashion gossip rag you can think of.

Not that being buried alive under an avalanche of glossy pictures of semi-nude supermodels is a bad thing necessarily; it’s just that I had more of a “victim of bong-related injury” way of punching out in mind.

This was how I came to stumble across the most recent May 2005 edition of Cosmopolitan magazine today. It was more a result of trying to ebb back this enormous tide of Hollywood fluff that I happened to stumble across an article entitled: “The Right Way to Touch a Naked Man”.

To my shock, this Cosmo article listed about twenty-some odd recommended touching techniques that all directly revolved around the penis. It was all “stroke this”, “lick that”, kiss here”, fondle there”, etc, etc.

Umm, hello? Women do know that there are more parts to a naked man’s body than just an erect penis, right?

No don’t get me wrong, the male penis is an integral part of any naked man’s physical body composition, but there are other perfectly nice parts of the mans body that are also worthy of stimulation too – thank you very much!

Does Cosmopolitan really believe that men are really this shallow and easy to please? Well, okay - maybe we are. In fact, most of us could achieve orgasm in a stiff breeze; but still, variety is the spice of life! Some of us like to be wooed too.

Why is it that if I so much as ever gaze upon a woman’s bosom for one second too long, I’m immediately labeled as a one-track-minded letch? So how is this Cosmo article any different?

Why is it always about the dick?

Now this is not an open invite to begin inserting things up my ass either. But I think if “How to Touch a Naked Man” is indeed going to the topic, I’d like to bring some other particular “hot spots” to light as well.

Whatever happened to cuddling, bitch?

It seems to me that there is a lot of focus from our female counterparts in order o learn and familiarize ourselves with the complex sexual workings of the female body – and there are more than enough informative, educational articles available for us to resource our learning with. Shit, wives and girlfriends would enroll us in night courses if they had the chance!

So why then are women so primarily obsessed with only the cock? Thats totally limiting your options on an otherwise hot buffet of steaming man beef.

Why aren’t women being provided with adequate educational resource material of the likes being provided for us guys? It’s not hard to figure out how to jerk off a boyfriend under the duvee, is it? I’d say that comes pretty naturally. The “rapid up and down motion” is almost a given, so why not peel back the onion a little further girls?

Isn’t it kind of hypocritical to expect us dudes to have a complete PhD in Chickology, yet women are apparently allowed to get by on a simple General Arts credit? Men are just as complex a creature as any woman, albeit a little easier to please.

If the best sex advise currently being offered to women is “flick the tip”, “treats his jewels gingerly”, and “rougher touch on his shaft”, then I could expect a great blowjob from just about half the animals on planet Earth.

What do I need her for?

C’mon girls. There’s more to a naked man’s body than his penis! If you’re going to limit yourself to this area solely, than I’m going to resort to only tweeking your nipples and spanking your ass like all the simian-like male porn stars I’ve seen in the videos.

Of course, if that were ever to happen, then I’d immediately be labeled as the one who was lousy in bed because I’m still obligated to be a certified master of pussy manipulation – not the other way around. She just has to be there, and be able to finish him off manually. Simple.

How unfair is that? For shame, girls - for shame!

Mining for Planetary Poontang

And in some real ground breaking news, scientists funded by Japan’s Ministry of Education, Culture, Science, and Technology, said this week that they had drilled into the lower section of the Earth’s crust for the first time and were poised to break through to the mantle in coming years.

WTF? Do they really think that’s such a good idea?

Are they trying to locate Godzilla or maybe evidence that the ‘Land That Time Forgot’ really does in fact exist. What gives?

The Integrated Ocean Drilling Program (IODP) seeks the elusive “Moho”, a boundary formally known as the Mohorovicic discontinuity. It marks the division between the brittle outer crust and the hotter, softer mantle – kind of like Wilfred Brimley’s underpants.

Now here’s an expedition that I would want no fucking part of! This isn’t a Black & Decker fixer-uper we’re talking about here; this is puncturing the center of the Earth!

The depth of the Moho varies. This latest effort, which drilled 4,644ft below the ocean seafloor, appears to have been 1,000ft off to the side of where it needed to be to pierce the Moho, according to one reading of the seismic data used to map the crusts varying thickness. The new hole, which took nearly eight weeks to drill, is the third deepest ever made.

Pardon?

What’s fucking deeper than drilling into the Earths core? Or are they referring to the holes to China dug on occasion by Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner in the old Looney Tunes? I wonder if some geologists were sitting around stoned after a few bubblers and were watching Looney Tunes, and thus conceived the miraculous concept of tunneling to China?

IT WAS A FUCKING CARTOON! “Beepbeep” – bitch!

It’s kind of like poking an active beehive with a sharp stick – only this beehive is full of molten fucking lava, brimstone, and more poisonous nastiness to bring down every living thing on the face of the Earth! It’s a veritable Devil’s cauldron that Satan himself would love to spend his summer vacation.

I would say that drilling into the Earths center may not be the most ingenious brainchild ever conceived by mankind. If this were ever to cause any disastrous repercussions, like say an earthquake, volcanic eruption, giant tsunami, or any other number of natural catastrophes of significant Biblical proportions – something that makes the Book of Revelations seem like a children’s bedtime story, what would we do?

It’s not like we can just plug up a hole of that magnitude with a huge rubber stopper is it?

The purpose of the drilling is to provide important clues on how ocean crust forms. Already the rock collection brought back to the surface is providing new information about the planets composition.

Umm, you mean like, “composition” as in rocks, maybe?

Great, there’s another billion dollars spent.

These recovered rock samples show that conventional interpretations of the Earth’s evolution are “oversimplifying many of the features of the ocean’s crust”, said expedition leader Jay Miller of Texas A&M University.

Hey, dipshit. How do you “oversimplify” rocks exactly? THEY’RE ROCKS! They’re pretty fucking simple already, wouldn’t you say?

The latest drilling was done at the Atlantis Massif, located at the intersection of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge and the Atlantis fracture zone, two plates of the planets broken crust. At the moment, it is trying to be determined whether drilling should be continued on his hole and just deepen it, or whether a whole other new hole should be drilled elsewhere instead.

Wait? How many more holes do we need to be drilling into the Earth’s core anyways? Isn’t one hole enough?

Doesn’t anybody else feel that perhaps we shouldn’t be treating our precious Gaia like some twenty-dollar whore and repeatedly pierce her like some sort of discount piñata! The least we could be doing for her is giving her the ‘ol reach-around.

Mankind is the very embodiment of the obnoxious unwelcome gate-rasher who just won’t leave. We’ve busted the window, filled the place with foul smelly foreign cigarette smoke, set the lawn on fire, killed the pets, pissed in the pool, and now thinks he’s going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before, baby!

I wonder how we ever managed to survive the few thousand years that we have been here in the first place? We have this inherited mentality, where if we can’t fuck it – we kill it. This whole drilling to the center of the Earth fiasco is just mankind’s ultimate way of getting himself some global-sized poontang.

Notes from the Ground Zero at Corporate Hell (Part VII)

Today, life threw me another curve ball from the mound of Corporate Hell. However, this pitch was something that I have been looking forward to and have been requesting for the better part of three diligent months now – I have finally been transferred back to the day shift.

SAINTS BE PRAISED! I am back among the living once again. Nine o’clock to five-fucking-thirty PM - bitch. How sweet it that?

I am so thrilled to finally get back to somewhat of a normal lifestyle; one that allows me to, to, to…well, to do all the same nonexistent shit that I never do normally, except it will still be light outside while I’m not doing it.

Whatever – I’m tickled fucking pink.

But at the stroke of my 9:00AM days beginning all that could really be said about me at that point was, that I was awake, functioning somewhat, and had still managed to not kill anybody yet. So far, it’s only onward and upward!

It’s been months since I’ve graced the building anytime before noon, and I’m excited to once again join the ranks of the daytime wage donkeys. I missed all the usual daytime shenanigans: the line ups for the boiling kettle, the red cracked eyes peering at you from over Tim Horton coffee mugs, the ferocious eagerness in which they attack their computers while they work, the adjusting and re-adjusting of the numerous possible desk chair settings, the straightening out of tilted kitty calendar’s hanging on cubicle walls – Holy Christ, I could on forever!

Oh, how I missed it! All that’s missing now is some crotchety nicotine stained harpy of a woman on the opposite side of the room screaming, “OKAY, LET’S ROCK AND ROLL!” to signal the stampede to begin the work day.

The king is back, baby!

I won’t particularly miss the evening shift – it’s an entirely different lifestyle, and by far the more evil of the scheduling beasts.

The evening and late night employee’s are a different breed. They are slower, mistrusting, and cranky. They are prone to loud indiscrete discussions about their work gripes and grievances as well as how many bong hits they did the night before after work. The day timers in comparison are more focused and determined. They prefer waiting to air their dirty laundry until their lunchtimes and instead keep their bong-hit calculations to themselves. Besides, who can remember correctly afterwards if it’s being done properly anyways, right?

Noobs.

Day timers are the more advanced of the species. You can immediately tell by the steep foreheads, prominent chins, smaller eyebrow ridges, and a distinct lack of magazines featuring Paris Hilton on the cover. They tend to prefer crosswords, scooping out the competition, and biting their nails in comparison. Oh, and chances are that they won’t be wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with gaping orifices and demonic skulls either.

It’s like comparing Albert Einstein to Cro-Magnon man.

Day timers are just higher functioning, despite the noticeable lag in my step and the fact that I still haven’t taken my sunglasses off yet two hours into my shift, that is.

Don’t get me wrong, after 16 years of bartending the four world continents, I have the late night instincts of an owl; but there are just too many perks to ignore in transferring to the day shift. Getting to walk home in the fading daylight, sunset BBQ’s, and the fact that my skin won’t be so pale and pasty having been exposed to more sunlight regularly, and hence, manufacturing those all-important vitamins D and E.

And I’m all about the fuckin’ D’s and E’s let me tell you!

Hopefully in time, I will learn to not recoil from the suns rays like a tardy vampire each time I leave the building on my way home. For the first week or so, I will have to wear a lead apron on my walk to work just so that I don’t wither down into a pile of salt.

The real difficult thing about switching to the daytime shift is adjusting my sleep schedule so that I can manage to achieve something resembling REM sleep sometime before the crack of dawn.

It was a real LONG night last night, and I am expecting more to come in the coming nights ahead. I spent about four hours last night just staring at the ceiling and counting imaginary sheep by the thousands until I was able drift off to la-la land; and even then, I had bizarre dreams of lawnmower riding sheep in sunglasses that would rival any Mentos commercial!

So, at the time of this journal entry, I was barely conscious after maybe a three-hour slumber. Gradually, after four or five cups of strong-ass coffee, I’m just as awake and alert as if somebody had just suddenly poured grapefruit juice straight into my eye sockets!

Give me a few weeks for my body and my life functions to readjust accordingly, and I’ll once again transition into the dominant Silverback that I am accustomed to being in this corporate-inspired ‘Call Center of the Apes’.

Adult Education

I’m a bit of a prude - I admit it. Wilt Chamberlain I am not.

But now that Mother Nature seems to have taken her Prozac, it is finally beginning to seem like spring is upon us. Once again, like every other horny ‘Great-Peckered Horndog’ on the planet, I have an enormous seasonal bulge in my pants that makes it seem like somebody has opened a golfing umbrella in my crotch.

I just can’t help it – IT’S SPRINGTIME! Just walking to the corner store can ultimately leave me wetter than inland Florida after Hurricane Francis!

All guys turn into dogs in heat when the warm weather finally arrives. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that suddenly skirts become shorter and that supple milky flesh begins to runneth over from behind hemlines and cropped tops as women shed their Eskimo attire in lieu of sexier spring wear.

Everything excites me lately – even the Pope’s funeral was like one big ‘Cardinals Gone Wild!’ video!

I’m feeling a bit out of my element here, and the headlines in all the current impulse women’s magazines at store checkouts do little to offer me any comfort. It seems that every few weeks there is another new list of “10 Hot Tips to Make Her Howl Like a Monkey”. Who’s having all this sex? How many tips, techniques, positions, and hints are there out there anyways? At the current rate of my sensual development these days, I must be the sexual equivalent of the slow, retarded kid who sat all by himself in the cloak closet back in Grade Three.

It scares me. I feel like I’m being left behind somehow as everyone else around me is turning into porn stars while I’m evolving into a Benedictine monk. What can I say? I’m a nice guy, not a contortionist.

But dammit! I have fucking needs too – literally! My Charlie Brown’s are beginning to swell up like two ripe juicy passion fruits and I’m afraid that if I don’t find some instant gratification soon I may just spontaneously combust in a vicious explosion, resembling that of having wedged plastic explosive up the ‘Stay Puft’ Marshmallow Man’s ass.

But I’m scared - I can’t help it. I think that without some kind of remedial Sex 101 class, I may be just setting myself up for the embarrassment of the century; on par with Chuck Berry’s extensive library of bathroom piss videos, or even anything that has ever been reportedly perpetrated in the showers at Neverland Ranch.

There has to be some way to cram for the big sex exam and find myself that instant dose of healthy sexual libido, shouldn’t there? So it was with this very perplexing personal conundrum that I finally decided to make a timely foray into the taboo world of Adult Novelty and Video Entertainment. That’s right – that forbidden opaque door beneath those quintuple neon red X’s that brazenly beckons out to us Great-Peckered-Horndogs like an Amsterdam, blue light massage pallor.

I felt almost moth-like in my attraction to the place.

This expedition was not really intended so that I could purchase or rent anything, so much as it was just to simply scope out the forbidden landscape that I have been so, seemingly, missing out on. It was more out of morbid curiosity than that of sheer horniness on my part.

Pornography, or “Adult Entertainment”, has never been my cup of tea per se, but since just about everybody seems to be into it but me, I just wanted to know what the big deal was all about. Between the shapely girls jogging in the park and the ‘Ashley Madison’ dating infomercials, you can’t go 15 feet without having some extreme T&A being shoved under your nose*.

Up until now, I think I’ve done a good job resisting again these less-than-pure impulses; now I am eager to have a patented ‘Oriental Hanging Fuck Basket’ of my very own to place in the corner of my living room to complete the whole trendy feng shui feel to my humble bachelor pad.

Go figure.

The world of mainstream Adult Entertainment is a shocking one to the budding virgin pornophile such as myself. The pre-envisioned notions of soft-core, couple-orientated blue movies quickly gave way to gang bangs, circle jerks, cream pies, and water sports - whatever the fuck that is! When did sex become so, so…ugly?

Apart from the fact that the place pleasantly smelled like my old dorm room**, what greeted me in the aisles of this perverts paradise would have made a back-alley prostitute uncomfortable. It was like walking into Rob Lowe’s closet. Honestly, who would wedge an entire frozen French stick loaf up their ass? Is this what I have been missing out on each time I pass up on the latest edition of Cosmopolitan?

There were no poignant sex tips, or informative insights on dating or romance at all! Just miles and miles of perversion in which you would have to be either a Russian acrobat, or a renowned Kripalu yoga master in order to perform successfully. For a dried up well like myself, this is like falling into a Banda Ache swimming pool without your water wings.

Needless to say, it did nothing to improve my bruised sexual ego.

Not only were the overabundant graphic visuals disturbing, but the written word was just as mentally damaging and uninspiring as well. It seems that there is some kind of recognized “Porno-speak” that couldn’t be any more confusing had it been written in hieroglyphics. Like computer instant messaging services, there is popular understood code of abbreviations and short forms that develops among regular practitioners. Such eloquent literary acronyms as: DP, DA, DV, DVDA, ATM, MMF, MMMF, FFM, MILF, BBW – are you confused yet?

I know my porno like my cat knows nuclear physics. I could literally feel my IQ being swallowed up my ass.

Should I ever decide to fly to Ireland, I’m likely to end up doing hard time in maximum security after reading the ‘Aer Lingus’ logo on the tail wing of the plane. I expect that there could be a slight chance now that I could mistakenly lapse into a hypnotically-triggered state of porno mentality, and end up attacking the stewardess over International waters in a uncontrollable fit of subconscious machismo; and piledrive her through the floorboards of the plane.

My unleashed animal magnetism could be putting the lives of millions at risk!

I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I decided, then and there, that I would exit the premises immediately while I still had my good 20/20 vision intact and a regular heart rate. I was only defeating the purpose of being there by staying any longer. I had all the answers I was looking for. In fact, I had too many. So, after hyperventilating for a little while in the ‘Amateur Muff’ section of the store, I gathered my senses and what was left of my dignity, and bolted for the door; breaking out into the afternoon sun like a diver immerging from murky depths.

Did I feel any wiser or worldly? No. Did I feel any manlier or confident? Of course not! I felt about as sexually stimulating as another Kirk Gibson movie. I would have an easier time masturbating to a Steve Earle album than I would to any of the depraved scenarios being depicted on the back of the newly released ‘Duchess of Pork: IV’ DVD***.

Basically, this was a complete train wreck of a field trip, that’s for sure!

However, there was one positive aspect of this experience that will help me to continue holding my head up high despite my apparent lack of sexual prowess, and that’s the confidence that my quick passage to Heaven has been assured since, from this point forward, I may never be able to masturbate again!

Nevermind the spit-roasting of a fat she-male while she gang sucks a group of circus midgets - I’ll just stick to crying in the shower with a bag of Oreo’s like normal people.

I wonder if there is any sort of government assistance for people who must continually suffer from this dreaded 'Jerry Springer Syndrome' throughout their lives?

* Or an enormous raging hard-on, as the case may be.

** A curious mixture of pot, fart, and Mennon speed stick.

*** Which means either “Digital Versatile Disk”, or “Double Vaginal Doggie” – I forget which.

Who's Feeding Terri Schiavo?

Terri Schiavo, the 41-year-old brain-damaged woman at the center of a national legal, political, and ethical battle, also died earlier this week, nearly two weeks after doctors removed her feeding tube.

On behalf of the moral majority of the socially conscious members of the planet – thank fucking God it's over and this poor woman can finally lay at peace. If I hear one more person mention the words “feeding tube” – I’m going to have to resort to more drastic measures and puncture my ear drums with a sharp pencil.

It’s been everywhere for the better part of a month – Terri Schiavo this; feeding tube that. How did something so morose become so fad?

Sure misery loves company and the public has a morbid sense of fascination, but do we really all need to be bombarded with the whole intricate working procedures of a medical feeding device? It’s about as mentally stimulating as watching a possum bake on a hot highway tarmac.

It’s feeding tube mania!

I’m sure all the popular fashion magazines will be featuring celebrity photo spreads of them sporting their new chic designer feeding tubes. Imagine Sandra Bullock lying on a beach in Waikiki with her current mysterious beau, and decked out in her fashionable new slinky two-piece Maryan Mehlhorn bathing suit and matching Armani feeding tube sticking out her side. How sexy!

Even beyond the whole feeding tube craze, Terri Schiavo’s existence was anything but peaceful or remotely normal. It’s only now that she has finally passed that I am able to digest all that has happened.

Schiavo collapsed in 1990 from a cardiac arrest and suffered brain damage because of lack of oxygen. It is a contested argument that this collapse may have been triggered by a history of bulimia – a fact that the family refuses to accept. Since then she has existed in a “non-responsive vegetative state” and couldn’t beat a box rocks at a game of checkers.

Likewise, she has been at the epicenter of a decade long legal tug-of-war between her husband and guardian, Michael, and her parents, Bob and Mary Schindler. Michael Schiavo maintains his wife would not want to be kept alive in her condition, while her parents claim she could improve with intense therapy. And all the while, before the video cameras, there’s Terri – lifelessly frozen in her “lucid state” like a chipmunk begging for an acorn.

Her parents have also been conducting a coast-to-coast media plea for anybody with two cents to add, from the Christian activist Rev. Patrick Mahoney to Bo Grit, the notorious defending dipshit of citizen’s rights and ex-thorn-in-the-side-of-the-CIA*.

Whatever it was that her final wishes were; it was not to be paraded in front of the public eye like a burnt out Muppet. I’m sure didn’t wish to be the hot topic of debate for everyone from that douchebag Larry King to Jay Leno. It’d be the equivalent to having your mother bring out the naked photos of you potty-training on your “Sweet Sixteen” party – totally inappropriate.

However, it seems that this tidbit of common sense seems to have escaped everyone; particularly those that are supposed to care for her final wishes. But perhaps that’s the whole rub right there – we don’t know what her final wishes really were. I do think it’s a pretty safe however that she never intended to be flaunted in the media headlines as a prop in an ongoing rivalry.

To add further insult to injury; Michael Schiavo has requested that an autopsy be performed on the deceased Terri so that they can issue a full report on the extent of her brain damage prior to her death.

Pardon?

So, for someone who is adamantly maintaining that her final wishes were to be left to die if ever she should fall into such a state, and yet he’s willing to crack open her skull like a ripe melon in order o analyze the cobwebs inside. How’s that allowing her to die with dignity?

On top of it all, Terri is not yet at peace even in death, since her body is again to be the focal point of another legal battle. Michael Schiavo plans on taking her cremated remains back to Pennsylvania, where she grew up, but her parents want to bury her in Florida so her parents and siblings can visit her grave.

Oh, for fuck sakes! Why not just cut the poor woman’s corpse in half and divide it among the parties to do with as they see fit. This is getting ridiculous. At this point, it’s less about the concern and respect for Terri’s wishes, than it is about two feuding parties with axes to grind.

What really pisses me off though; is that Terri’s family has now released a statement requesting that the public respect the family wishes to leave them alone to mourn in peace? WTF?

You mean, after they’ve repeatedly dragged their daughter’s lifeless image through a three-ring circus of media hoopla during the final days of her life, that they suddenly want privacy? Do they really think that the beast that they’ve invited into their lives and whipped up into a feeding frenzy is just going to slink away quietly and willingly?

“Thanks for all your help and support; but it’s over now. Ta-ta!”

Not bloody fucking likely!

The media are like sharks that have smelled blood; they are not going to subside until they’ve had their fill – or at least until Michael “Freakshow” Jackson does something stupid in court again.

* Whom is it worthy to note, was arrested trying to break a police line out front of Terri Schiavo’s hospital to arrest Michael Schiavo for violating citizen rights, and to ultimately feed Terri some bread and water. Yeah, great idea there, Rambo! What were you going to do exactly with her in a vegetative state – stuff the food down her throat? Jackass.

"One order of grilled 'Brutal Honesty & Onions', please"

A fellow vegan co-worker lectured me today on my poor carnivorous dietary habits while watching me maw down three cheeseburgers in 15 minutes during my dinner break, while she daintily nibbled away at her miniature sliced carrots. So, in light of this recent accusation, vegetarians and animal right activists beware: I am no longer afraid to voice my antiquated opinions regarding a most taboo topic for me. But someone has to defend the consumption of meat, dammit!

I will not deny that there are animals on these factory farms who are raised for the sole purpose of food; but if you’re a meat-eater, and you want to hide behind guilt, don’t look at them as victims…think of them as the chosen ones. It’s their destiny to fill the empty stomachs of hungry-ass homo-sapiens.

Don’t get me wrong; I do believe animal-rights activists have the right to preach about the cruelty of animals - they’re here to keep us in check.

I’ll give them this; when it comes to eating animal products, there should be more rules and regulations. We shouldn’t simply kill and eat any animal we manage to trap whenever we please; I believe we should only eat a rooster, if it loses a cockfight. For every chicken that loses, there should be a KFC truck standing by.

The thing I don’t understand is that we have activists who are carnivores but have a problem with chickens living in poor conditions before being slaughtered; they believe there should be a more harmless way to die. You mean, like forcing them to watch reruns of ‘Growing Pains’? As cruel as this is to chickens, they are only being butchered for food…you can’t put them up in a five star hotel!

If you’re going to eat it, why contradict yourself; why would a heartless killer care what happens to a chicken before it dies? Before I smother my chicken fingers with gravy…I’m not wondering if it had a manicure! These are definitely the same breed of moron who orders the pre-made salad at Fast Food joints.

"Would you like an order of NO fries with your Ally McBeal Happy Meal?"

Animal-rights activists are against keeping animals in captivity; I’m with them on this one to some extent. Have you been to the Zoo lately? These wild animals just lay there, the lazy bastards! These animals are so boring I’d rather visit my grandmother.

Compared to a lazy tiger, grandma is like a sorority hazing party!

If keeping animals in captivity is so wrong, how do they explain having pets? Some activists justify having pets by calling them “companion animals.” Stop with the labels; it’s a pet - would you walk your companion on a leash? Would you tie your companion to a pole? Would you let your companion drink out of the toilet bowl? I’m not calling any dog or cat by that word till it coughs up at least half the rent!

Sometimes these activists can come up with some interesting points to support their argument. Members of PETA will say that we carnivores wouldn’t eat meat if we had to hunt our own food. They’re right! If I had to do my own hunting, I would be a vegetarian; not only would I eat miniature sliced carrots like your skinny ass, I’d also be eating branches and dry leaves.

Why would I then go on such an expedition when I can just find food in my own backyard…there’s no way I’m chasing down a bull every time I want to barbeque! If I had to fetch my own food, it would definitely be something a little less dangerous to procure, like a tomato. The worst it could do would be to roll out of reach. Besides, considering the freakish number of squirrels in this neighborhood, I could probably trap enough small game to live on for years.

They call us murderers for eating meat; but I didn’t kill the animal, I only hired the Hit man; that’s why I go the grocery store, and hang out by the meat-section; I want to make sure he got the job done.

Now if you’re a Vegetarian and you’re reading this, you’re probably saying: “How dare you eat those poor animals!” Well I actually existed on a vegan diet for the better part of a year in university. It wasn’t for so much for the health aspect so much as it was for the hot monkey sex that came with dating a vegetarian yoga instructor.

After approximately 9 months on this diet, and one bitter break up later, I came to the conclusion that my own body was trying to tell me something…today I’m happy to say that a Big Mac helped me see the light.

It’s hard to switch diets; I was born and raised on meat. My Mother told me when I was six months old - my first word was “Whopper!”

I will always be a carnivore and I’m going to keep eating flesh; because I don’t want to bring shame to my meat-eating family. Letting my parents know I’m vegetarian, would be like telling them I’m gay! Being a Vegan would still be a lot worse to my folks; because even gay guys love meat. Homosexuals aren’t ridiculed for jamming their throats with a celery stick; even if it has some dip on the tip.

Animal rights activists try to win their argument by comparing meat to drugs; to drugs? I’ll admit I’m addicted to meat, but no one can peer pressure me into mainlining bacon bits! When I need a fix, I can’t go to the ghetto at 2 in the morning and find a hot dog stand…I’d have to wait ‘til at least noon!

There are many benefits to eating meat; but they always stick to the negative, don’t they?. Some experts say that the intake of meat and dairy products has been linked with impotence. Yeah, and this affects me, a single male of almost a decade, how? At least if I’m not getting laid, I can enjoy some flame-grilled, juicy, animal carcass.

It’s unrealistic to expect that everyone will stop eating animals overnight; even if I wanted to, I already know it would take me a life time. I understand what vegetarians and these animal-rights organizations are trying to say, but I’m going to continue eating meat…

EVEN IF IT KILLS ME!

My One-Way Ticket to Hell

(Written, on what may very well be, the threshold of Pope John Paul’s last few moments in this lifetime. It was only intended as a means of avoiding the never-ending update broadcast drudgery currently being aired on television, by venting here instead.)

I had just gotten home, switched on the television in order to catch an update on the Pope's condition, and I was instantly blasted back into the Jurassic period by the sheer impact of the pertaining media bruahaha that lept back through the screen at me. Yep, the whole media circus a la carte has already begun surrounding the impending demise of the 84 year old Pope.

“The gates are open - AND THEY'RE OFF!”

Here we go. The media juggernaught of Popedom still to come is poised above us, ready to fall like a two ton pierogi the moment the good Pope, as the poignant CNN host Richard Quest puts it, “resigns to the ultimate fate?”

Heeeey, that’s a pretty tactful way of saying he’s dying isn’t it, Rich? Clever boy. Thanks for beating around the bush, dipshit. This Richard Quest guy is like an older, gayer, Harry Potter. Here's another gem of a quote from one of his featured updates:

"We will continue to wait for hard facts on the Pope's condition."

Hard facts? You mean hard facts as in a corpse perhaps? What a jackass.

Already the channels are flooded with archival portraits and photos of the Pope John Paul in all his Holy Popeness. At this exact moment, Pope John Paul is in critical condition at the Vatican in Rome and his body is failing rapidly so that he is not expected to live much longer. CNN, being the vultures they are, are continuously broadcasting the entire breaking story as “POPE’S GRAVE CONDITION WORSENING”. How can you get any worse than “grave condition”? That’s sounds pretty friggin’ bad, right? How can you make that even “worse”?

Good April Fools Day joke, CNN. I got it.

You would think that in light of the developing iconic tragedy, that the media mogul powers-that-be would more concentrate on the many earthy feats and miracles that the first Slavic Pope had a hand in creating during his respected papal reign over the 1,1 billion Roman Catholics world round – but, oh no! Instead, it’s all detailed accounts of the Pope’s recent failing bodily organs and functions.

Oh goodie.

Parkinson’s, tachometry’s, fevers, nasal tubes, urinary tract infections, septic shocks – oh my! I bet that the Depends Company owns huge stock shares in the Catholic Church by now. Honestly, too much information! That sounds like the featured broadcast in Hell. I don’t need to know that much personal information on anybody, much the less the human earthly embodiment of God himself.

The Vatican officials are releasing statements that the Pope is in a "lucid and serene state". They are even going so far as to say: “Soon, Jesus will open heaven’s gates to John Paul. He already sees and touches God”, and here I’m stuck listening to statistical medical reports on his urinary tract infection. WTF?

Interesting to note however, is that CNN is also reporting that if the Pope somehow manages to hold on in the days ahead, “that he would be likely prescribed a recommended treatment of narcotics.”

Cool!

The Pope smokes dope, dude!

(My apologies for my dubious blasphemy – there will be a public stoning held next Friday in the square.)