Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Oye Como Wha?

A former personal assistant to Carlos Santana has filed a wrongful termination lawsuit against the aging rocker, claiming he was fired after his consciousness was calibrated and determined to be too low.

What the fuck does that mean? How calibrated does your “consciousness” have to be to press underwear and fetch quarter-pounders and prostitutes in the middle of the night?

Apparently, Bruce Kuhlman, 59, charges that Santana’s wife, Deborah, brought in a man known as “Dr. Dan” so that employees could grow closer to God and become better workers. In Deborah’s view, the higher a person calibrated with Dr. Dan, the better employee they were because they were more “spiritually involved”. I guess when Santana sang that he was under the spell of a Black Magic Woman – he wasn’t kidding.

Okay, surely somebody has slipped something into the crystal bowl of blue M&M’s. Where does one even begin to cut through all the spiritual hocus-pocus of all this ridiculousness? And pardon me for asking, but who is this Dr. Dan guy working for anyways – Santana, or God himself? How does this Dr. Dan calibrate people’s consciousness anyways? Is he like God’s personal mechanic or something? Hey, if I ever needed to “calibrate” anything, I’ll just take myself to Jiffy Lube, not to some jackass named Dr. Dan!

Christ, after all his old party days, I guess Mr. Supernatural himself must have an IQ in the single digits to ever place such stock in the spiritual treacle of someone with that stupid of a name. Honestly, it makes him sound like someone who should be selling orthopedic mattresses on late night infomercials. But in all seriousness, he must be one hell of a holy dude given the depth of faith that Mrs. Santana places in him. I bet he could make a parsley enema sound enticing.

Now, I’ve been fired from many a job in the past, some of which I may have probably deserved, but if anybody tried to terminate me from my job by claiming that I wasn’t close enough to God, I’d go all supernatural on his ass and feed his genitals to a wolf. God sure isn’t going to offer me any severance packages is he?

Kuhlman is seeking monetary damages for lost wages, emotional distress, and unpaid overtime among other demands. The 58-year-old Santana and his wife would not comment on the allegations but did indicate that they intended to fight the case while the amazing Dr. Dan levitated the entire Marin County Courthouse on a cloud of positive karma until the trial is complete and justice prevails.

The lawsuit alleges that “spiritual calibration” allowed a person to develop a deeper level of consciousness. Here’s my question to the jury on Mr. Kuhlman’s behalf: How does someone accurately gauge how deep one’s level of consciousness is? Os there some kind of cerebral dipstick used to probe the brain to determine the actual depth of its thought processes? Because if there is, I bet that ‘ol Santana would be measuring a pretty shallow depth of consciousness himself. The guy sounds like he has the common sense of a graham cracker; not to mention the same grip on reality as the family of unicorns that live under my living room carpet.

The Big Soggy

(Yet again, I realize that it may be too soon to make any light of the events currently unfolding in the states of Louisianna, Alabama, Mississippi, and Florida. But since my ticket to Hell has already been bought and paid for; I figured, why wait?)

I have just returned home from my much-needed East Coast camping trip (where the only wind and water I was concerned with were the bottled and the beer fart varieties), showered, unpacked, turned on the television, and what do I see but more people stranded on rooftops, wind swept cityscapes, rioters and refugees wading in the streets, poor dislocated seals being assassinated in parking lots, and Anderson Cooper running around with another hard on.

Ahhh, hurricane disaster season must be upon us again once again folks.

Anderson Cooper sure loves his smashed up tractor-trailers in hotel lobbies, eh? He has even repeatedly quipped for CNN: “I’ve never seen anything like it before”. Umm, how about Banda Ache, you ass hat – or has it been too long between disasters for you? Honestly, you dipshit - THINK before you open your pie hole.

With %80 of the Big Easy already completely flooded under 20ft of water rushing in from the breached levees of nearby Lake Pontchartrain, and most of the Mississippi and Alabama gulf coastlines in shambles, Hurricane Katrina has proven to be a natural disaster of gargantuan proportions the likes of which haven’t been seen on North American soil before. What I’d really like to know is what did we do exactly that so pissed off Mother Nature that she felt obligated to take this other vicious swat at mankind? We had better start throwing virgins into active volcanoes (I suggest we start with Condoleeza Rice) before it’s too late for the rest of us as well!

Here’s what I don’t understand: when the warning was issued to evacuate the city, why did so many people choose to ignore the order and instead remain in their homes? Were they eager to try out their new blow-up mattresses or something? I don’t know about you, but when somebody screams “get the fuck out of here!” - I get the fuck out of there – FAST! No questions asked. Deciding to weather out the mother of all tropical storms in a known “bowl” below sea level is just insane unless you’re a sea-monkey or Aquaman. These are the same people who back in 79 BC when Mt. Vesuvius was erupting, would have moved their lawn chairs out into the courtyard to watch the pyrotechnics.

Most disturbing to me are the numerous accounts of pubic looting and pilfering of local businesses and homes by panic-stricken refugees. Here are people I’d like to go all Gitmo on and beat with a sack of oranges. I’m not talking about those looting for important survival items such as food, water, medicines, and emergency provisions; I’m talking about those after such life-giving necessities as fur coats, clothes, Nikes, jewelry, TV’s, and microwaves as if it’s just one massive “Going Underwater Sale”. There are entire armed bands of survivors looting Wal-Marts and the police are practically holding the doors open for them; lending the odd hand to pass television sets through smashed windows.

“It’s Armageddon”, remarked one woman as she fled from a local shop in the French Quarter while hiding her face behind an armful of ill-gotten Huggie’s. What was she going to do, use the Huggie’s to absorb and mop up the water in her home? Hey, don’t get me wrong: when Armageddon comes sweetheart, I’ll be the first one to toss a brick through the nearest storefront window, but I’ll be in search of things to keep me alive (not to mention the sheer enjoyment of it), not diapers and designer shoes. But of course, looking your best for rescue helicopters is important.

Another man in the street with ten pairs of jeans draped over his arm was asked if he was salvaging things from his store. His response: "No, that's EVERYBODY'S store!" Thanks for keeping it real, douchebag. At least New Orleans residents are maintaining their sense of humor I guess. I hope those pairs of jeans serve to weight him down to the bottom when the water continue to rise.

The real tragedy in all this is that President George Bush was forced to call short his five-week vacation by two days - and don’t think he’s getting those days back, either. The poor bastard hasn’t even had a chance to kick back and relax since this past April for God sakes! So anyways, ‘ol Dubya abandons his deserved furlough the day after the disaster to return to Washington D.C. to circle the wagons and summon an “all hands on deck” order to the National Guard and homeland security forces. What a leader, huh? Who feels more secure now that the idiot child is now calling the shots from thousands of miles away? I know I do.

On his way back to Washington of course, he directed Air Force One pilots to fly him over the ravaged disaster areas so that he could see first hand the severity of the storms destruction. Turning to his aides, he said: "It's totally wiped out. ... It's devastating, it's got to be doubly devastating on the ground." So he flew over the disaster area and pointed out the obvious. That’s just fucking brilliant, Mr. President. If he really wants to see Katrina's devastation first hand, I say give him a snorkel and a pair of flippers and drop his ass off on the corner of Canal Street and Clairborne Ave. Too bad there isn’t a cooler president like, say, Harrison Ford in ‘Air Force One’. He would’ve had those pilots fly the plane low enough so that he could pluck survivors from their rooftops with his outstretched hand before leading the National Guard into the aisles of Wal-Mart to kick some looter ass.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Kittens, and Knives, and Roadside Surgery, OH MY!

I have found the feel good story of the century, despite its being a little on the morose side. Nothing quite says heartwarming like “kittens rescued from the womb of their dead mother”. I'm getting all warm and fuzzy just typing it. However, nothing quite sounds so disturbing at the same time either.

Let me paint you the bigger picture:

Two teenaged girls were out for a leisurely stroll in northern New Brunswick recently, when what should they happen to come across, but a dead cat lying by the side of the road. Recognizing the ex-feline and remembering that it had been pregnant, they checked the body.

I don’t know about you, but when I happen upon a dead cat (or any other animal for that matter) by the side of the road, I highly doubt that I would ever be drawn to inspect it’s body close enough to determine it’s body temperature – even if I did recognize the beast in question! There may have been a time in my past when I may have been tempted to poke at the dead body with a stick, but as a wizened adult, I think I'd be more prone to just avoid the rotting carcass altogether.

Now here’s where this story takes a strange twist towards the macabre. Feeling that the poor dead cats body was still warm, the girls fetched a knife from a nearby neighbors house and performed a caesarian section on the kitty corpse, pulling out two live kittens (the other two were dead), cuttin’ the cords, wipin’ off their cute little kitty button noses, and sparing them one of their precious nine lives.

Awwwwww. Isn’t that the “feel good” story of the century? It has all the necessary components of a classic heartwarming tale of triumph in the face of heart-wrenching tragedy: two teenage surgeons, two kittens rescued from the brink of death from the womb of their mothers corpse, and impromptu, roadside surgeries. However, as happy a story as this is, I still find it to be a bit on the unnerving side.

What spurned these girls to open up the dead cat in the first place? Who does that? "Hey, there's a dead animal - I'd better open'er up to see if there is anything living inside!" Maybe Doogie Hauser, M.D. might or something, but two teenaged girls? Something is just not quite right here. Something is indeed rotten in the province of New Brunswick - and I'm not talking about the cat. Where did these girls learn how to conduct a caesarian section on a cat in the first place exactly? To the best of my knowledge, this kind of intimate knowledge is just not taught in high school biology class. I think these girls may have had more prior experience at opening up cats than maybe they’re letting on. And that’s the twisted part.

How did it occur to these girls to open up the dead cat to save the kittens unless they were just looking for something to slice into already and they just happened along some live kittens in the process? I find that creepy. I'm sure glad these girls don't live in my neighborhood. Not for all the rescued kittens in the world would I want them living nextdoor to me.

Something else I find disturbing about this story is how easily these girls were able to acquire a knife from a nearby neighbor without so much as any reluctance or inquiry. I guess it’s commonplace for strange girls to drop by and ask for cutting knives in New Brunswick. I would think that if two teenaged girls came to my home looking for a kitchen knife with which to gut a dead cat that they had found by the set of the road, I would be a bit more hesitant to loan one out. I certainly wouldn’t just hand over my prized sous-knife without first asking some exploratory questions.

To round out this schmultzfest of a post, I'll finish by letting it be known that one of these two rescued kittens died afterwards, but the final of the litter continues to be alive and well and is now the pet of one of the 15-year-old surgeons. Lucky cat! Although if I were this particular cat, I'd have one eye over my shyoulder at all times lest Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde should ever feel the need to play veternarian surgeon once again.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Cheap-ass Laptop Lowdown

I have found further proof that we, the members of the collective human race, are all gleefully skipping towards Gomorrah. And not only are we willfully heading in that direction, but we're all doing so hand-in-hand while whistling 'Zip-a-Dee-fucking-Doo-Da' at the top of our lungs the entire way!

A rush to purchase $50 used Apple laptop computers in Richard, VA, turned into a melee when people literally stampeded once the gates were opened to begin the sale.

What in the fuck is this world coming to when we're violently competing with one another over used Apple computers?

More than 5,500 people (although the estimates of actual numbers of sale attendees ranges anywhere up to 12,000) turned out at the Richmond International Raceway in the hopes of getting their mitts on a four-year-old Apple iBook (which normally sell for $1300 to $1690 new) being given away by the local school board. The fact that eager sale attendees began showing up just after midnight on the night before the scheduled 7:00 AM, but organizerssale just proves that Virginians sure loves themselves some second-hand junk.

I would have thought that most Virginians wouldn’t even have the good sense to operate a computer; but judging by the state of your average Virginians front yard, perhaps the yokels were intending to use the computers as box planters instead. Whatever the case – Virginians are ready to riot for used computers. Stand in their way, and you'll risk having a folding chair embedded in your skull.

“This is total, total chaos!” said LaToya Jones, 19, who lost one of her flip-flips in the ordeal and later limped around on the sizzling asphalt pavement on her one bare foot like a penguin on a hotplate. Wow, lost her flip-flop? Measuring this poor woman’s loss and suffering is practically incalculable.

In the stampede, it was reported that people were getting thrown to the ground and trampled on; a baby’s buggy was crushed like a pop can; men beat each other off with folding chairs; and one desperate buyer even attempted to drive their car through the crowd. Now here's an enterprising guy - willing to commit vehicular homicide for a chance at owning a discounted computer. You just have to admire that kind of mental disconnect. One lady even went so far as to piss herself rather than surrender her position in line. How fucked up is all that? It sounds like something signaling the end of the earth!

Apparently, Virginians and cheap ass shit go together like guns and alcohol.

The sale was originally scheduled for 9:00AM, but with the line stretchng out to a kilometer in length, and in part to an overwhleming stench of urine, organizers brought forward the start time by two hours. People threw themselves forward, screaming and pushing. Seventeen people suffered minor injuries, with four requiring hospital treatment. Amazingly, despite a heavy police presence, no arrests were made. Of course, police officers were probably beating people down with their billy-clubs in an effort to get to the haloed iBook grails themselves.


Is all fair in love and used computers in the state of Virginia? There are people mowing down pedestrians with their automobiles, old men being disgarded to the ground, others going all WWE by swinging chairs into the foreheads and bodies of rival shoppers, baby's caught in the crosshairs, and unfortunate teenaged girls loosing their flip-flops. It was complete anarchy!

Sale organizer, Paul Proto, commented about the fiasco: “It’s rather strange that we would have such a tremendous response for the purchase of a laptop computer, and laptop computers that probably have a less-than-desirable attributes.” I guess Mr. Proto and event coordinators certainly didn’t take into account the Virginians apparent strong obsession with used crap.

County officials said they would review events and see what could be done differently for future sales. I see. Why don’t we make things really interesting by providing frenzied bargain hunters with weapons of combat and simply turn them loose in a caged-in free-for-all in which the surviving shoppers left standing afterwards will be awarded first dibs on discounted 8-track players or cuisinarts or something? That would make a great pay-per-view event!

If you really want a deal – you'll have to fight for it!

(for an actual first-hand account of this stampede ordeal, click here.)

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

California Scheming

A ‘Hush Up’ scandal is set to rock California like the next inevitable earthquake and finally wash away the Golden State into the Pacific for good. A woman who allegedly had an affair with the California governor Arnold Schwartzenegger was reportedly paid $20,000 by the publisher of US tabloid the National Enquirer to keep the scandal secret.

A friend of the woman named by the Los Angeles Times as 46-year-old Gigi Goyette claims she was also paid $1000 by the tabloid to keep confidential what she knew in reported deals that came just days after Schwartzenegger announced his candidacy for California Governor in 2003.

Now, just a fucking minute here. This whole scandal revolves around something that was originally reported on by the National Enquirer. Pardon? Since when does anybody take anything that a tabloid has to post seriously? Paranoid delusional old woman who live with like a zillion cats and a penchant for scratch tickets - THAT’S WHO! And who cares what they think anyways? Here is a breed of publication that has also printed such exuberant, illustrious exclusives as: “Hitler predicted Internet porn”, “Gay aliens found in UFO wreck”, and “Toddler’s finger painting reveals location of Atlantis”. Shit, they have regularly monthly updates on ‘Bat Boy’ * for fuck sakes! I wouldn’t believe anything that I read in a tabloid newspaper if it told me that my pants were on fire.

Likewise, why should we even believe anything this Gigi Goyette supposedly claims now anyways? She’s already gratefully skipped all the way to the bank and cashed a check for a cool $20,000 just for shutting the fuck up. I bet her laughter didn’t subside for days. So obviously she’s a scruple less welcher on an otherwise perfectly good contractual arrangement – surely we’re not now going to start speculating on her personal integrity as well? Why should we now believe her after she renigs on her original deal in order to specifically reveal her 7-year-old affair with a known celebrity womanizer?

Sounds like she REALLY wanted to brag about banging Conan the Barbarian. Who cares? Despite my furious outrage at having starred in both the 'Twins' and 'Kindergarden Cop' train wrecks, I still have to side with and sympathize for 'ol Arnie on this one.

So big Arnie has been banging some goldbricker for seven years?


Why shouldn’t he – he’s the fucking TERMINATOR! He probably keeps his jewels in a suede pouch too. And he’s fucking entitled! Hell, part of me still wants to fuck the guy. So why then does another alleged affair with some other mysterious blonde cruise cooze with the business acumen of a rabid hyena matter?

I hope for $20,000 she was at least circus acrobat good.

Let's look at the bright side - at least he wasn't banging a corpse.

* Who, by last accounts, is in astronaut school training to be part of the next space shuttle mission (March 2004).

Monday, August 15, 2005

The Shitty End of the Stick

(WARNING! This post contains an excessive amount of references to, and mentions of, poopie.)

I could never be a dog owner again.

Sure I loved my faithful K-9 buddies while I was growing up as a child, but in my later years as an adult I have definitely morphed into more of a cat person. I don’t mind the seeing and petting of other peoples pet dogs but I don’t think I will ever actually own one myself again. I think the pet tide invariably switched in favor of the felines in my life when it became expected that you also clean up the fecal souvenirs left behind your beloved pet whenever it takes a dump while out for a walk.

That’s just plain gross! Hommie don’t play that.

I can remember back as a kid dogs were great. Nobody cared where your dog crapped (except the inevitable reclusive widower who always lived on the corner) and no one ever expected you to pick up it's shit afterwards. In fact, it was an honor to have a neighborhood dog shit on your lawn, or even better still, to ever happen to step square in a freshly laid pile of dog shit. It was considered lucky in the same way as that of having a seagull shit on your head. I don’t purport to understand the logic behind it exactly, but it was there, prevalent, and accepted by everyone.

Dogs would run around dropping turds wherever they pleased and nobody ever seemed to give a shit (so to speak). It was good then to be a dog owner. But then somewhere along the way, that mutual acceptance and respect for dog shit subsided and took an unexpected turn, and somehow, a new whole anti-dog shit culture emerged. All of sudden it became necessary to be mindful of where your dog did it’s personal bid‘ness and also be responsible for it’s immediate removal. Man, one dog I had as a kid had the nastiest smelling shits that ever left a dog’s asshole. If at that time it would have ever been required to scoop his poop afterwards, I would have had to have been a certified member of the Atomic Regulatory Taskforce in order to have a chance at survival.

Not a fucking chance!

I’m just not willing to expend that kind of ownership responsibilities over another living, and shitting, creature - at least not in public anyways. I think witnessing dog owners scooping up and handling their pets turds like they were warm chestnuts makes me want to hurl. It’s not very dignified is it?

How cool can you really be when you’re in up to the elbow in a plastic bag and shoveling up dog shit like a sucker! And just knowing some of these little furry shit factories, you’d be bending over more times than a homeless man picking up cigarette butts at a tailgate party by the time you’ve made it just around the block. Likewise, who wants to be seen swinging a bag of shit while they’re walking down the street? It’s hard enough as it is to accessorize without having to worry about your bag of dog crap as well.

Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that there is some degree of servitude owed to cat owners as well in regards to the cleaning out their kitty litter boxes. But what happens in the privacy of your own home is just between buddies - cat and cat owner. You’re not outside in public in front of God and all your neighbors like some schlep.

There’s just no fucking way!

If I were a dog owner, the first trick I’d teach it would be how to pick up after themselves. Forget the ‘ol “sit”, “roll over”, and “play dead” standards – that’s all well and dandy of course, but it’s gets old pretty fucking fast. If dogs are really mans best friend, let them prove it by taking care of their basic bodily functions their own-damn-selves. Or even better yet, teach the dog to just shit in zip-lock baggie’s and lug them home for you instead.

Now THAT’S a trick worthy of praise!

How did this modern “Shitphobia” get started? Suddenly everybody is totally shit obsessed. Even when I left my apartment this morning there was a business flyer in my mailbox for, I guess, the latest neighborhood entrepreneurialship – ‘A&A Pet Waste Removal’. Wow! And I thought my job was shitty.

Here’s a company willing to employ people to make regular visits to your yard in order to remove all of those left “canine calling cards”. The long and short of it, or at least the steaming and mooshy, is that they come around to pick up your pets shit for you. That sounds just marginally more rewarding than the job that I am currently holding down since they can more accurately quantify the amount of shit that they actually deal with.

I understand that everybody wants a clean shit-free yard these days, but if someone legitimately wants and loves their pet so much, then they should be contractually obligated to not be so lazy and clean up after it themselves. Calling a professional poop-scooper? That’s just cheating as a pet owner!

This company brochure also goes so far as to detail the benefits for both yourself and for your pet, which both seem to revolve around the spread of salmonella *, giordia, roundworms, hookworms, pinworms, and numerous other diseases that can be spread with lingering left around dog shit, or by the rodents who may be feeding on this accumulated nest-egg of feces. You know, that’s more than I ever wanted to fucking know about, or needed to know about shit before 8:00AM.

Also interesting to note is that this company charges per dog, not per shit (as I would have expected). So the actual quantity of shit being produced is irrelevant as long as it all comes from the same beast? At $10 dollars a pet, that’s quite a bargain! At those rates I could save on my own monthly water bill and toilet paper expenses by hiring ‘A&A Pet Waste Removal’ and resort to simply shitting in my front yard and then dragging my ass along the lawn instead!

No sir! There are some things that I just won't do. I am too far up on the food chain to ever allow myself to handle another lower lifeforms fecal matter. Well, not unless it can be easily separated from the granular litter with a special purple vibrating pooper-scooper that is.

* Now all these diseases I can understand the need for – but SALMONELLA? Who the fuck is actually eating the shit? God I hope they’re referring to the animal in question! And if that’s the case, I say whatever befalls a creature too stupid to realize that eating it’s own feces is a bad idea deserves whatever becomes of it. Period!

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Dead Celebrity Society

I received one of those friendship chain emails today that asks you to fill out an extensive survey of questions about personal details and such character defining tidbits such as your age, hair color, favorite television show, your one dessert island album choice, etc. You know, those real deep-cutting inquiries that attempt to pin your personality down like a butterfly on one of life’s entomological tackboards.

Anyways, one such monumental character defining inquires asked: “Which famous deceased celebrity or personality would you most like to have a chance to have dinner with?”

Huh? I would imagine in that in their present state of decay, that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere in the near vicinity, much less sitting across the table from one having dinner. I think the sight of a decomposing corpse and the stench of rotting flesh would put my off my gazpacho. I can see where this might be intriguing if you’re, say, the Crypt Keeper. I, however, would prefer a live celebrity or personality, thank you very much. It’s bound to be better conversation.

“So, what’s it like to be eaten by worms?”

But in the spirit of maintaining friendly email relations I will carefully consider the question. I admit that it would be fun to possibly go hunting with Ernest Hemmingway, shoot hoops with Einstein, or get drunk with Winston Churchill and light firecrackers. However, when it comes down to it, almost any dead celebrity would do.

Shit, if they’re really going to defy natural laws by coming back from the grave to answer such silly questions as “what’s your favorite breakfast cereal?” – I’m hardly going to complain about who it is.

Just for shits n’ giggles, here’s the rest of the survey (well, the portions that I feel comfortable posting to the Internet anyways):

1. Hair Color? Brown.
2. Height? 5’11-ish”
3. How old are you? 33.
4. What color is your underwear? Who wears underwear?
5. What are you listening to right now? Grateful Dead (05-25-74).
6. What was the last thing you ate? Chilled green seedless grapes.
8. Favorite drink? Guinness.
9. Favorite sports to watch? Midget wrestling.
10. Have you ever dyed your hair? Yes (black).
11. Pets? One spoiled cat named Miso.
12. What was the last movie you watched? 'The Man from Elysian Fields'.
13. What was your favorite toy as a child? G.I.-mutherfuckin’ Joe.
14. Living arrangements? Upper story of a duplex.
15. When was the last time you cried? Immediately after watching 'The Man From Elysian Fields'.
16. What is on the floor of your closet? Dusty boxes of books.
17. What do you have on the walls in your room? Fading wallpaper and charcoal drawings.
18. What did you do last night? Passed out by 10:00pm in front of the television.
19. Favorite Smell? My farts in the shower.
20. Number of keys on your key ring? 53. I like keys.
21. How many times have you moved? Not possible to calculate without a PhD in Quantum Mathematics.
22. What are you afraid of? Queer as Folk.
23. Chips or Pringles? Pringles.
24. Favorite television show? M*A*S*H
25. Ever picked your nose? My nostrils are 4” in diameter. What do you think?

Oh yeah, and…

26. What is your one dessert island album choice? It’s a toss up between Tom Waits ‘Closing Time’ and the Rolling Stones ‘Exile on Main Street’.
27. Which famous deceased celebrity or personality would you most like to have a chance to have dinner with? Genghis Khan.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Hans Off! Island

Demark has recently stated it’s intentions to send a letter of protest to Canada over a government minister’s visit to a wind-swept Arctic Island off northwestern Greenland that is claimed by both countries.

A letter of protest? Oh no! Anything but that!

On behalf of fellow Canadians everywhere, allow me to respond appropriately: “Go suck bacon, you hosers! It’s our island, eh!”

Canadian Defense Minister Bill Graham set foot on the 1.3 square kilometer Hans Island on July 26th, he remarked: “Our position has always been clear: It’s Canada!” Fucking-A, Bill! You tell those Havarti-sucking bastards what’s what. Don’t they have enough fjords on their coastline to keep them content that they also want to lay claim to a piece of rock roughly 1,100 km’s south of the North Pole?

In 1973, Canada and Denmark drew a border down the inhospitable Nares Straight halfway between Greenland, and Canada’s Ellesmere Island. But the countries decided that sovereignty over Hans Island and others in the Arctic region would be determined later.

In 1984, Tom Hoeyem, who was Denmark’s minister for Greenland affairs, caused a stir when he raised a Danish flag on the island, buried a bottle of brandy at the base of the pole with a note saying: “Welcome to the Danish Island”. That’s pretty eloquent. Who wrote that – a two-year-old?

Danish navy ships visited the island in 2002 and 2003. Who gives a shit? I say we go in there, take that flag down, chug back their booze, blow a fart in the general direction of the motherland, wipe our ass with a copy of Hans Christian Anderson’s ‘Little Mermaid’, and hurl the empty brandy bottle through the hull of the nearest Danish ship. After 400 years of forced relinquishments of land, surrenders, and lost battles, they think we’re going to be intimidated enough to just simply let them have it? Hey, you want it - come and get it!

Here's a country who has adopted a proverb that states: "Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." Sounds like loser talk to me.

Danishes are frosted pastries with delicious jelly centers – hardly something to be afraid of. Maybe we should just start following standard political protocol and begin calling them "Freedom Tarts" instead, or just ban them from governmental cafeterias altogether.

But honestly, who cares who wants this useless piece of realistate? Lets look at this island’s vitals: population = zero, endemic wildlife = zero, retail outlets = zero, ATM machines = zero, airports = zero. In fact, this useless island is small enough that you can punt a football across it. You could literally stand on one bank of the island and put out a fire on the opposite bank by pissing on it. To top it all off, you can only reach it in the summer months when the ice around it melts. In brief: THERE’S NOTHING FUCKING THERE!

Why then all the hubbub then? It seems to me that the Danes claim to the island is sketchy at best. Just because you buried a bottle of brandy and left a message written by a two-year-old, hardy qualifies you to lay official claim to it. Shit, my local boozer serves Tuborg and you’re lucky to get a decent coherent conversation for more than three minutes – does that automatically make it a Danish sovereign? Fuck NO!

Apparently, Denmark is attempting to assert is sovereignty over Hans Island based on the territory’s proximity to Greenland. But what those crazy Danes are forgetting (too much Carlsbad maybe?) is that the Arctic islands were discovered by the British not the Danish, and rights to these islands passed to Canada when Canada formally gained independence from British. Since when does proximity to another piece of land determine who owns it? Using this flawed logic, Aruba would belong to Venezuela and St. Pierre and Miquelon would belong to Canada.

I’m not really surprised at their erroneous thinking considering this is a country who boasts having the University of Theoretical Physics. What the fuck is that exactly? An institute of higher learning dedicated to the study of forces that may, or may not, exist? Okay, put down the ‘Space Cake’ there Kierkegaard before your brain implodes in on itself.

The whole controversy has been heightened thanks to a personal duel on the Internet between two dipshits with nothing better to do than argue over who owns a barren rock in the middle of fucking nowhere. There, the whole debate seems to hinge on the possibility that the island may turn out to be a yet untapped source of rich mineral resources. If that ever becomes the case, I am confident that we Canadians would toss aside out blue helmets for the moment, and kicking ourselves some Danish ass!

If push ever comes to shove, Denmark would fold like a cheap tent before you could say “pass the frikadeller”. We’d whoop their jelly-filled asses all the way back to Tivoli Gardens and still be back in time for the second period of 'Hockey Night In Canada'.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

"Our water, who is art in Devon. Haloed be thy shame."

Let’s be honest – it’s pretty easy to hate art. “Visual Art” that is.

Sure some of it is neat to look at from time to time. Fewer still possess any actual merits that resemble anything like beauty or endearing charm. Usually art evokes a feeling in me similar to that of watching dog shit drying on someone’s front lawn. Most often, they simply leave me as confused as I was when trying to work out how to wipe your ass with those three seashells from the movie Demolition Man.

More correctly however, it’s the pretentious artists themselves that I hate. They would be the first ones I’d have up against the wall when the revolution comes.

Here’s my case in point. Artist Wayne Hill is upset that his work, entitled ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ (hey, he must have had a team of monkeys working around the clock to come up with that catchy title), was recently stolen from a literary festival * in Devon, U.K. He valued the work at a mere pittance of 42,500 pounds ($80,000 dollars in Canadian currency).

Here’s the real kicker: Hill’s “work” of “art” was a two-litre, clear plastic bottle filled with melted ice from the Antarctic, supposedly meant to highlight global warming. WTF? Forty-two fucking gee’s just for a clear bottle of water? That’s fucking asinine!

Perhaps I could just take a shit on a paper plate, stick a flag in it, and call it “art” and that would give me the right to charge forty-two thousand for it? Sure, I could attempt to explain that the paper plate symbolizes innocence and the shit as a steaming mass of life’s corruption – but it’s still just shit on a paper plate. Sheesh!

Who the fuck would ever spend that kind of money on a bottle of water? That’s an idiot I’d love to meet just so I can smack him upside the head.

By the artists own description: “it looked like an ordinary bottle of water. But it was on a plinth, labeled, described and in the programme of the whole festival.” Sure. Clear as mud. Aside from not immediately knowing what the fuck a “plinth” was exactly, I can see how this artwork may have been misplaced. In fact, Hill’s biggest fear is that somebody took the bottle of water and drank it being as it was such a hot day at the festival ‘n all. Holy shit, that’s sure one fucking expensive thirst quencher!

Apparently, this artwork was scheduled for further exhibitions later on in the year, and it was getting around and gaining a small reputation for itself. Pardon? It’s a fucking bottle of water! You can buy those in any corner shop or from any vending machine in the free world!

Apparently, as the BBC notes about Hill’s artwork, he “created the work earlier this year after asking a friend who was visiting the Antarctic to bring back some melted ice water.” You mean he didn’t even get the fucking ice himself? All he really did then was just melt down a block of ice with a disposable Bic lighter and drip it into a container from his recycling box. And he thinks THAT gives him the right to charge 42,000 pounds?

Get fucked.

Maybe if had he done something more to actually earn the money by trudging his own lazy ass down to the Antarctic and lugging the block of ice all the way back his own-fucking-self, I may be able to easier accept the extravagant price tag. But just for melting it into a plastic bottle? No-fucking-way, Jose!

Remember when being an artist meant you have some other talent other than bullshittery?

Yean. Me neither.

* Why visual art was being showcased at a “literary festival” is beyond me anyways; but of course, these are “arteests” we’re talking about here.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Minivans of Death

(Portions of this post were motivated and inspired by both recent actions as well as by the article 'My Roving Barcolounger' by Michelle Cottle in Time magazine (08/01). Others were outright plagarized. I was far too traumatized to be completely creative.)

On my walk into work this morning I was almost plowed over by some jackass driving a minivan. I don't think this would have been a very dignified way to leave this life – run over by an unabashed suburban breeder. To date, I have been hoping to exit from this world as the result of being buried alive in an avalanche of naked Swedish supermodels…but giving the amount of minivans on the road these days, not to mention the influx of jagoffs who drive them, the chances of this actually happening are steadily declining.

Even more than minivans themselves, I hate the people who drive them. Their priorities in life are just all FUBAR *. This driver wasn’t even the remotest bit aware of my presence or proximity to his vehicle as he hurtled it down the street blindly; possibly due to the fact that he looked at the time like he was fidgeting with the controls inside his driver’s cockpit like a NASA Mission Control employee after freebasing an entire bushel of coffee beans. Looking back on it, I would have had more faith had a chimpanzee been at the wheel of the vehicle instead.

And who could ever really be surprised over this idiot’s driving since your basic minivans now on sale at the car lots come equipped with such interior luxuries as huge leather seats, lightning-quick seat warmers, individual climate control, DVD player, satellite radio, 10” hi-definition color television, five-CD changer, cell phone power cutlets, “conversation mirror” (to facilitate chats with backseat passengers), voice-activated navigation system and, of course, more beverage holders than you could shake a frozen Frappuccino at. Shit, throw in a wet bar and shower massage and I forsee a future where no one would ever have to leave their vehicles ever fucking again. If these minivans could somehow manage to make a nice raspberry torte and give blowjobs through some installed onboard ‘Suck-o-Matic’ device – I’d consider making one my wife!

But how safe is all this; particularly for us pedestrians?

I mean, who’s bright fucking idea was it to install a mirror whose sole purpose is to shift the driver’s gaze from where it should be – ON THE FUCKING ROAD! Who’s doing the actual driving with all this activity going on? Sure the DVD player probably helps take the edge off long road trips, but how many accidents could have been avoided if the driver hadn’t also been struggling to stay awake through the ending of Jody Foster’s ‘Contact’ at the time of impact? Sure the navigation system is pretty handy in that it can locate the five nearest Chinese restaurants from any point in the continental U.S. but it will also remind you of your noon dental appointment and that you still have to pick up the cats antifungal cream before the vet closed at six. Cool? Abso-fucking-lutely. But also utterly distracting from the task at hand – DRIVING!

I’m not surprised then that this middle-aged moolyak behind the wheel didn’t even see me, what with him yammering on the cell phone, checking his email, programming his onboard appointment log, channel-surfing for last nights hockey scores on the satellite radio; all the while trying to cook breakfast on the fold away hotplate in the dashboard. This idiot didn’t stand a chance of seeing me lumbering across his path like a bloated woodchuck since he was so busy pushing buttons like a lab rat on amphetamines.

Thank you luxury driving.

Considering that middle-aged parents have enough to deal with already so that they really have the attention span of a coma patient – why then are we designing their automobiles to have so many unnecessary bells and whistles that you literally have to be a military test pilot to operate? That’s like pouring water on a drowning man!

I think in the name of safety, all models of minivans and SUV’s should also come equipped with shackles on the steering wheel to lock down the driver’s hands in place in order to drive. I also wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of toothpicks to prop open their eye lids either. Christ, why stop there? Instead of seat warmers, there should just be electrodes to administer electric shocks directly to the driver’s genitals to help keep them awake and focused.

That'll learn 'um good.

Basically, minivans are becoming more like little mobile homes in themselves so that driving them affords you no more effort than merely operating your television remote from your barcolounger. I can understand the desire to be comfortable and relaxed while out running all the necessary errands that are commonly associated with maintaining a family in today’s fast-paced society, but if you think some idiot savant with a cell phone prevents a serious road hazard, just imagine how deadly he’d be while watching ‘Braveheart’ at the same time!

There has been ample evidence provided that the driving public already pays far too little attention to the road as it is. Driver distractions, such as ordinary low-tech basics as eating, chatting with passengers, and fiddling with the radio - account for nearly 80% of vehicular crack-ups. Even just recently, the ‘British Medical Journal’ added that even gabbing on a cell phone (even the hands-free variety) quadruples your risk of getting into an accident requiring the jaws-of-life and a free trip to the hospital.

Now given all this information supporting the easy distraction of automobile driver’s and the need for more focused attention – who designed these fucking modern death traps on wheels? Satan?

“Beelzebub has a minivan put aside for me, for me, for meeeeeee…”

So do I forgive this moronic driver this morning in his kitted out minivan?


* That means “Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition” just in case you’ve been living under a rock.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Beauty and the Basher

Just when you thought they had successfully captured every kink, fetish, and perversion under the sky on film (if you can stick your penis into it, there’s probably an entire section dedicated to it at your local Adult Video store dedicated to it), along comes none other than former World Boxing Championship to announce his intention to throw his hat into the porno ring as well. Well, more correctly, throw his 14 ½” monster schlong into the uber-hot Jenna Jameson.

How utterly fucked up is that? I hope the world is prepared for the vicious aftershock when Tyson’s career plunges even further into the earths motlen core.

I thought Jenna Jameson had developed the good business acumen lately to stop making hardcore adult films to instead focus on marketing her naked jubblies on every website, webpage, web banner, magazine layout and billboard advertisement in the free world? If it’s a flat unoccupied surface, Jenna will probably be spread-eagled on it nowadays. She probably rakes in more money now than the Gross National Product of most Third World countries.

Why then would she now be interested in banging a convicted rapist with a correction file that could crush a small animal, and a johnson that could sweep away the carcass afterwards? Honestly, I would expect that having sex with Jenna after something like that would be much akin to simply throwing a hotdog down a hallway. I suspect that this is why nobody has heard from Robin Givens since her divorce from Iron Mike…she’s probably still so traumatized that she just sits and stares out the window drooling.

Apparently, Tyson, who retired from boxing last month, said that he desperately needs the money to pay off his tax bills of several million dollars, and a rebirth as a porn star could help him in his cause. About his bid to relaunch his downward-spiraling career into the world of adult entertainment, Tyson only commented “I need the money up front”.

Gee, that’s just terrific! Just as long as he’s doing it for the right reasons. Not that anyone would ever believe him if he had cited “artistic direction” has his major motivational factor – but I digress. But to request that kind of serious money up front, he’d better be damn sure not to be stricken with a case of shrinky-dink when it comes time to roll film!

American boxing journalist Pedro Fernandez has said that Tyson would likely triumph in the sex industry. “If Tyson brings out some of the ferocity that made him a champion, he could definitely become a successful porn star”, he said.

WTF? That’s just fucking scary – literally! This is a guy who has served six years back in 1992 on rape charges and who is known to bite off the ears of his opponents in the ring! What kind of “ferocity” is needed for porn exactly? Or are they just going to have him repetitively punch Jenna Jameson in the muff until she climaxes?

That’s sexy.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

"Vomit Check, Aisle Seven!"

In a dating shot heard around the world, Wal-Mart has announced to its legions of consumers that it will hammer the final nails into the coffin of one of it’s more obscure, ill-fated programs that actually attempted to help single shoppers find love among the aisles of ‘Red Tag Sale’ bins. I’m sure the good owners and proprietors of ‘Lava Life’ are letting out a collective sigh of relief.

Who in their right coherent minds would ever go to Wal-Mart of all fucking places to find a little romance for their lives? Wal-Mart doesn't even sell condoms! Personally, I find Walmart to be about as romantic and stimulating as combing out the knots from my butt hair.

Apparently, taking a cue from other Wal-Mart’s located over in Germany, on Friday nights singles looking to score with more than just bargain basement prices, mindless flirting in the Women's Lingerie department, or just to meet a new friend in the Family Planning aisle, could just head on over to their local Wal-Mart where they’re given a big bright red bow to attach to their shopping cart or shopping basket to attract other single losers like moths to a blue light. To help initiate contact between single shoppers, they even went so far as to set up “flirting points” around the stores stacked with such vital mood enhancers as chocolate, cheese and wine, in order to help with that first awkward step.

Whatever happened to get getting pissed at some hole-in-the-wall bar, air-guitaring to Foreigner like a jagoff, and screwing the first welfare mother who passes out in the parkinglot? Anyone? Bueller?

I’m not at all surprised that this program went over like a set of Nipsy Russel collector plates. These are fucking GERMANS, after all, that devised this scary business-dating strategy. They’re EVIL! They start wars – not make love connections! Since when have Germans ever been considered as anything resembling romantic? Bratwurst, sauerkraut, Kraftwerk, polka, Beer Hall Putsches, Wagner, and the Holocaust - what’s ever been romantic about being German?

Do you get all juiced up and excited over 'Oh Mein Papa'? Fuck NO!

I’d even be terrified of helping myself to those free treats at the flirting points lest they should be secretly dosed with Zyklon-B. One minute I’m nibbling on a piece of gruyere and chatting up some woman over a stack of bath mats, and the next thing I know I’m riding a white swan through some mystical Marc Bolan wet dream fantasy into a bright light on the horizon.

I don’t even understand how Wal-Mart could consider adapting this program of “Single Shoppers” for consumers here in North America anyways. To me, Wal-Mart and romance go together like meatballs and glue. Besides the fact that someone who shops regularly at Wal-Mart (much less on a Friday night) would be the kind of person who would otherwise spend their weekends at home making collages out of cutout pictures from old MacCleans magazines; it just screams “CHEAP BASTARD”! Not exactly "Dating Material" in my books. I wouldn’t approach any of these people; even if I was all hopped up on chocolate and wine. From what I’ve witnessed in the aisles on my few brief intermittent visits to Wal-Martdom, your average Wal-Mart shopper looks like someone whose first date would possibly entail chopping up my body and dumping me in the woods on the outskirts of town.

Who cares if 300 to 400 people regularly took part in this madness in Germany? They’re fucking Germans! Remember? They’re all on the autobahn straight to Hell anyways. They can all be fornicating with donkeys in the store aisles and still I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. That doesn’t mean that we too should jump on the bandwagon.

We North Americans are far too paranoid and uptight to ever participate in these single shopping romance shenanigans. We take our dating tips from Dr. Phil – not Sam Walton! Besides, how much of a loser are you going to feel if you should fail to pick up even at Wal-Mart? I don't know about you, but I’d shoot myself between the eyes with a crossbow from the Sporting Goods department before ever attempting to live that one down! All the free chocolate and cheese in the world isn’t going to help me score when the female prospect spots me checking out with an oil funnel, a bottle of baby oil, and a tube of tennis balls.

If Wal-Mart really wanted to make this “Single Shoppers” program work with Western consumers they might have considered adopting new staff uniforms apart from those god-awful red-fucking-vests that make their employees look like a bunch of organ-grinder’s monkeys for fuck sakes! How about something a little more peek-a-boo, or at least that has a few tassels or something? And beyond plying their shoppers with schmultzy food at “flirting points”, how about also providing them an entire allotted section of the superstore in which to bump uglies once those aphrodisiacs kick in? They could have a whole “Swing Area” in the bedding department for the single shoppers to rut in like animals in heat if ever they should find true love among the vast shelves of cheap-ass discounted housewares.

Please, dear reader, if any of you should ever happen to see me wandering the aisles at Wal-Mart in the future with a big red bow on the shopping basket hanging over my arm like some Little Red-fucking-Riding Hood ass hat - mule kick me straight in the scrotum!

My thanks in advance.