Sunday, July 30, 2006

The Yogurt Monologues (Part I)

Something finally snapped. After years of contemplating, failed planning, abandoned attempts, bitching, whining - and don’t forget the all-important moaning – I have finally begun to diet in earnest.

For the past week, I have started eating more vegetables and less Quarter Pounders, forgone second helpings, snubbed my nose at desserts, made healthier decisions, and started a strict exercise regiment of power walking in the evenings. Seven-whole-fucking-days...and I haven't strayed from the plan, or stabbed myself in the forehead with a grapefruit knife.

Yep, it’s ‘Yogurt Time’.

People have already started to ask me why I’ve only now decided to attempt to loose some weight. They offer me all the usual explanation synopses that they may have had get healthier, feel better about myself, wanting to live longer, etc. But honestly, my reasoning is a little more self-indulgent and pointed.

I want to get laid *.

Now, lets get one thing straight – I CAN have sex. But for once in my life, I want the good freaky monkey kind of sex. Not the labored, slapping, pathetic kind of sex that fat people have. You know - the kind of sex that resembles two hippos butting heads on the African Plains. Lord knows I’ve shed enough tears in my life that I shouldn’t have to cry during sex either. When I next get around to doing the deed, I want the body and energy of a Russian circus acrobat so that I can really enjoy me some hot bendy sex.

But whatever my reasoning, my diet is not without it’s price.

At the moment, my body makes me feel like the Six Million-Dollar Man before the surgery. I can picture my dietician standing over my bloated and broken body: “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology”. But soon it will be different. I will be better than I was before. Better, Stronger, Faster. Able to boink with the focused longevity of any porn star. It may not exactly be Romantic poetry, but it’s the truth. I already have blisters the size of silver dollars on my heels to prove the seriousness of my efforts.

The real amazement in dieting for me is that eating more vegetables give you gas. Who knew? Now as I walk down the street in the evenings I’m constantly ripping farts like an old man at a prune stand. Some evenings, I’m sure my neighbors don’t know if it’s just me in the distance, or a flock of ducks coming down the street as they enjoy their coffees on the front porch.

But who said that loosing weight was ever going to be pretty? It’s just going to have to be the cross that I will have to bear.

I’m a victim here after all. Not just a victim of mass marketing and fast food consumerism, but of the new “Fat Gene” theory those Nutritionists are now proposing. I knew there was something unholy about my constant cravings for cheeseburgers. And like most victims, I’m just going to have to find a way of incriminating society for my suffering and demand federal assistance. Or, I can try to rise above it all, or at least off the couch, and do something constructive about it.

Scientists are now theorizing that obesity is a developed genetic disorder that wills people to eat extensively. We are literally powerless against the natural drive to consume food. This definitely shakes up the common notion that fat people are lazy, gluttonous, and weak willed.

No, sir! We’re helpless victims.

Researchers suggest that this gene, known as ‘lipin’, may be inherited and makes us more susceptible to the threat of high-calorie, high-variety, super-tasty convenience foods that have come to dominate the landscape. Yeah, another reason to be upset with your parents.

"I didn’t really want eat that third slice of pie, my parents genes made me do it!"


Making healthier decisions is tricky business though. Produce stands are definitely less inviting than any Golden Arches that may dot the horizon like Neon monoliths. But I need to do this. I need to sweat; I need to suffer; I need to eat more greens and be miserable for it. I need to loose some fucking weight.

Nothing will keep me from my freaky monkey sex.

And so begins my journey.

(to be con'd...)

* Being able to see my penis will be a bonus as well.

Another Loser's Lament

(This post was conceived while in a completely selfish mindset. I understand that the sentiments expressed below are in extremely poor taste and borderline on being “assholish”. However, that’s how the male mind works from time to time – or at least mine does anyway. To come to terms with the situation, I have attempted to confront and work through these negative feelings in this fashion to better understand the situation as a whole. Worse comes to worse – I’m just being the dick I was born to be, or in this case, the dick I should have been all along.)

Once, back in University, I started spending a lot of time with this girl named Sandra. We did practically everything together – apart from the usual “fun” stuff that most good amoral boy/girl friendships normally engage in.

That is to say, I wasn't gettin’ any.

I lacked that ability to lead the relationship into the next level. Of course, I mean the fabled “first base” that men so lovingly like to refer to it as. I was Darryl Strawberry stalled at first base waiting for the chance to take off for second. But, shit, I never even left home plate!

Apart from being beautiful, Sandra was extremely self-reliant and very assured of herself. She didn’t even so much as like to have a door held open for her. So, for a schmoopy ass old fashioned barf-o-matic such as myself, this meant that initiating those “tender” moments (such as kissing, petting, stroking, and hot anal action in back alleyways *) was never an easy thing to accomplish. I decided back then that I would have to figure out a way of kick-starting this whole process. So I set in motion a cunning plan to drive her into my arms.

I decided then to take her to a viewing of the just released ‘Schindler’s List’. It was perfect! She’d get all emotional and weepy-eyed, like chicks are apt to do, over the ensuing plight of the Jews that she would soon be seeking comfort in my strong masculine shoulders.

But to no avail - Sandra just sat there for three hours completely stonefaced. In fact, looking back at it now, I think she may actually have been cheering for the Nazi’s. I seem to remember seeing the faintest glimpse of a curled Grinch-like sneer, work its way across her face. The plan was beginning to spiral out of control.

To make matters worse, it was I who turned into the blubbering bag of mush as tears streamed from my eyes. I viewed most of the movie through a blurry veil of tears while Sandra sat there motionless planning her next strike on Whoville. Obviously my plan was failing me. Not only did we not hook up that evening, but I also had to over up with some weak line about having popcorn salt in my eye.

After that, Sandra and I didn’t see so much of one another. I lost myself in the usual male ritual of drug-induced inebriation while Sandra went off and joined a militant White Supremacist group.

Advance thirteen years to present day.

Now, I have been spending similar time with another female companion. As with Sandra, we have a, so far, clearly established plutonic relationship. Although, like every other blind optimist, I have always maintained in the back of my head that we would still make a great couple should we ever choose to go down that avenue.

As with Sandra, this situation has never come about.

But not through any misgivings on my behalf mind you. After thirteen years of romancing bottles of Cocoa butter, I’d happily date a syphilitic donkey. She, however, has always had a reason or two on why our relationship works best on a stringent “friends only” basis. Either I wasn’t “geeky” enough, or handsome enough, or responsible enough, or fun enough, or that I smoke too much pot. Whatever – there was always something about me that just didn’t register as potential boyfriend material with her. Fair enough.

Apparently, though, I just wasn’t Lesbian enough.

How’s that for a blow to my fragile male ego? Not exactly the encouragement I need to give up my precious marijuana now is it? Christ, I need it now more than ever!

Perhaps I should first explain things a bit further.

This current female friend of mine, during our time together, has become very important to me. For all intensive purposes we’ve been living out the boyfriend-girlfriend camaraderie thing for over a year now, only without the obvious fleshy benefits. Bosom buddies as it were. Pretty much par for the course where I’m concerned. Apart from the cleaning lady at work, she’s the only dose of femininity that I experience on a day-to-day basis.

As such, I often use her as the benchmark with which to base all my other prospective dates against **. I know she didn’t ask for that responsibility, but I think that that old adage that a “man looks for somebody resembling his mother” is just fucking creepy. Lets get one thing straight here – I have never, now or ever, wanted to bang my mother. And anyone who suggests that I do, regardless of what the Ph.D. diploma on his or her wall may suggest, can just bite me.

Likewise, I don’t want to bone my cleaning lady either.

So here is a girl for whom, despite being a good friend, is someone who in the back of my mind would be a great potential life partner. That’s not such a terrible notion is it? So why then isn’t she capable of feeling the same way about me?

Yesterday, I noticed a hickey on her neck. Oh fuck.

She proceeded to explain to me that the hickey on her neck had in fact been left by another woman during some hot lesbo weekend tryst. Oh fuckity fuck.

My precious machismo imploded in on itself like a ceramic vase at 200 fathoms. All my ugly insecurities rushed to the surface like an erupting volcano. What am I doing so wrong that even my close female confidants don’t even view me as a viable mate?

Am I that big a risk? I seem to literally repel women like opposite poles of a magnet.

What do I have to do exactly to convince girls that I am, in fact, all man? I do all the regular manly stuff. I scratch all the appropriate places, watch the mandatory amount of sporting broadcasts, I can fart on cue, I can grill a steak during a Category Five hurricane, and the center of my universe revolves around my Charlie Brown’s. What am I doing so wrong?

Likewise, I also have that oh-so-important touch of quiet feminine sensitivity that women seem to crave. After thirteen-fucking-years I have become a regular Martha-fucking-Stewart! Shit, I can cook, clean, knit, sew, and have been known to cry during sad movies – so put that in your Crockpot and smoke it! If I were in any more touch with my feminine side I would have grown ovaries by now.

By all standards - at least those that I’ve managed to recognize by reading Cosmo in line at the Supermarket - I have it all. I make myself available, I care, I empathize, I communicate, I try to understand her needs, I try to remember to lift the toilet seat before peeing, and I know more than just your basic missionary sex position ***. Aside from my ever-expanding ass lately, I feel as if I’ve got my datable bases covered.

And yet, she still seeks out another woman with which to satisfy her womanly desires. It’s every man’s nightmare come true.

This friend has tried to explain to me previously that it’s a simple case of our relationship lacking “chemistry”. Now I’m no Henry Cavendish, so am I alone here in wondering what this whole chemistry thing is all about? Or is this just lesbian code or something? I thought we were trying to appreciate and understand one another, not discovering new isotopes.

Now, I realize how stupid this all sounds. And, given the required time to get over it, I will continue to be happy and support her no matter what should transpire. I may be an asshole, but I’m a loyal open kinda asshole. But there’s still that little nagging voice in the back of my head that demands satisfaction – namely, what the fuck do women want exactly?

At the rate my understanding of women is developing, by the time I talk my way into someone’s bed my penis will have rusted off completely and be of little to no use to me anyway.

For the time being, I have to consul myself over the fact that even my best friend would rather munch bush than consider me as a viable dating option. And at the moment, that’s a bitter pill for my poor bruised ego to swallow. Not that there was ever any swallowing going on in the first place.

I guess there’s nothing I can really do but suck it up, get over myself, and carry on bid’ness as usual; carrying my wilted pride before me like a drum major’s baton.

Onward sissy soldiers…or something like that.

What else is there to do? It’s only a short step away from totally giving up on the whole dating thing altogether and shutting myself in with my $39.99 mail order ‘Penis Pump’ for good.

But, hey, at least the door has now been opened for the possibility of a little hot three-way action. At the very least, perhaps I could convince the girls to yodel 'The Lonely Goatherd' outside the bathroom door while I masturbate by myself with the Cocoa butter.

Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo ...

* Hey, I was 19 years old and a whole lot more gregarious in nature. I could achieve wood in nanoseconds. I had all your normal budding male sexuality fantasies. Now, I’d consider a simple hand job during commercial breaks to be kinky.

** Exactly zero in over four years. I’m really tearing up the dating scene.

*** Okay - busted. I saw them in a porno movie once, okay?

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Nightmare at Sea

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful tip. That started from this Florida port, aboard this luxury ship. The crew were mighty sailin' men, the captain sober and sure. Three thousand one hundred passengers set sail that day, for a three thousand-dollar tour, a three thousand-dollar tour…

With interests beginning to lag in the current Middle East bombings, this is what the media is left to work with. This is what constitutes as the new “developing crisis” for many of the bored news correspondents. It’s no bloodied townsfolk picking limbs out of a pile of rubble – but it’ll have to do.

The new Crown Princess luxury ocean liner built in 2006, and christened by one, Martha Stewart, last month in New York, rolled on it’s side 15 degrees during it’s fourth voyage of the season. That’s what you get when you let a convicted felon christen a luxury ocean liner.

I say they were fucked from the very beginning.

A supposed failure in the liner’s steering system caused the ship to lilt on its port side before righting itself again less than a minute later. Apparently, this caused almost unspeakable devastation for those onboard. Several of the upper decks were flooded and the elevators were inoperable. Gym equipment flipped over, TVs fell off their shelves and shattered glass was strewn across the deck.

This is a “near disaster”? Whoopee-fucking-shit! This is barely news worthy.

Vacationers complained that sliding plastic deck chairs had disturbed their sun tanning and that numerous shuffleboard games had been interrupted. One lady regaled the media with the horrific account of her margarita glass sliding across the table and smashing on the ground before she could finish.

“Oh, the horror….the horror...”

Tom Daus, 32, was sunbathing on the ship's upper deck when the ship began to list.

"It became very disastrous because … tables, glasses, lounge chairs went flying," he told The Associated Press in a cell phone interview. "I was just holding on for dear life onto the banister of the ship. As a result, I got more of a truckers tan on my one grasping arm instead of the all over tan I was going for."

"The water came gushing out of the pool like a mini-tsunami," he said. "It was really scary. People who were in the pool were shoved out."

Oh, for fuck sakes, get a grip dipshit! That’s not over-dramatizing things any is it? This guy has been watching one too many Anderson Cooper 360 updates.

Heaven’s forbid your snobby-assed cruise trip should ever be inconvenienced by a tragic twist of simple geometry. I know of about 125,000 people that are currently stranded along the Lebanese coast that would storm your luxury liner and throw your pontsy ass overboard into shark infested waters in a heartbeat given the opportunity. They’d make ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ look like a bunch of Mary Martin wannabe’s.

The real criticism comes from the Coast Guard who claims that the first warning to authorities that the Crown Princess cruise ship had tilted came not from the captain, but from a passenger on a cell phone. Well, maybe, that’s because the captain, the seasoned seaman he is, realized that a mere 15-fucking-degrees isn’t something to really get your panties in a twist over.

Instead, he participated in the onboard surfing contest with a dining room bus tray.

“I haven’t had this much fun since I used to ride that old washing machine down the hill in my backyard as a child”, the captain responded after he was contacted.

Princess Cruises, owners of the Crown Princess, says the captain, Andrew Proctor, was not on the bridge at the time the ship rolled slightly. The company says it doesn't know who called the Coast Guard first, but said its standard procedure is for the captain to contact authorities.

They did, however, mention that the caller sounded like a frightened little sissy girl who may, or may not have, wet themselves during the actual call.

Friday, July 21, 2006

The Days of Miracle and Blunder

Is anyone else bored to death with the whole Israeli/Hezbollah conflict thing yet? It has been a week already since the Israeli’s first decided to strike back by bitch-slapping Lebanon in retaliation for abducting two of their soldier’s.

It’s been all exploding bombs and dusty debris ever since.

But even the bombing updates get boring after awhile, don’t they? Even the news correspondents - you can tell - are all beginning to get anxious and are really secretly hoping for something different to report on. Maybe a nice beheading, or kidnapping, or how about a good ‘ol fashioned gang rape at some local orphanage? You know – something juicy.

Anything but more bombs!


Maybe if the Israeli army and Hezbollah were to agree to duke it out with swords and throwing stars, I’d be more inclined to give a shit. But as it is now, I haven’t been this bored since ‘I ::heart:: Huckabees’

Even hurricane reports sound more inviting right about now.

But you know what really pisses me off about the whole current escalating Middle East conflict? That the entire story now seems to have shifted to the pending rescue operations of thousands of North American vacationers stupid enough to be caught in the crossfire. And by all accounts, those suddenly needing to be up and rescued are not happy with the responses from their home governments in the face of disaster.

This is old news, you dipshits! Now tell us something we didn’t know.

Even if you were of Middle Easter decent, why would you ever go to Lebanon of all places? Can’t you just go to a travel agency and experience the majesty of the Holy Land by leafing through all the free travel brochures? Even if you have family still living there – ever heard of a little something called EMAIL, you idiots?

Haven’t these asshats even heard the first track on Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’?

“It was a slow day
And the sun was beating
On the soldiers by the side of the road
There was a bright light
A shattering of shop windows
The bomb in the baby carriage
Was wired to the radio”

C’mon people! Open your goddamn eyes already!

Now there is a tsunami of incoming complaints from those victimized travelers of mass disorder, a lack of necessary provisions provided - ie. water, food, and clean underwear* – as well as no definite plan of action for their immediate extraction. Stranded families have been waiting in airport lobbies and on marina docks for days waiting to be rescued. Shit, you’d think they still thought they were still on vacation and bitching about shitty room service!

Serves them right. What a bunch of whiney pricks!

Who the fuck goes off on vacation to Lebanon or Beirut in the first place? Honestly! Perhaps if they had tuned their television sets into something else besides ‘American Idol’ for even two minutes before they left on their trip to the epicenter of an ongoing war zone, they might have been a little smarter. Who needs a suntan that fucking badly that they would risk a surprise mortar attack to do so? How did that family vacation-planning all come about exactly?

"Hey dear, let's get away from it all for a while. Let's go to Lebanon."

Sounds pretty fucking stupid to me.

The moral of the story seems to be: if you stop to rescue retarded vacationers from the middle of a dangerous war zone, they are just going to bitch about it. No matter what!

Canadian Prime Minister Steven Harper even detoured his own private jet leaving from a Paris airport to the island of Cyprus in order to pick up over a hundred stranded Canadians and return them back to safety on native soil. And they still fucking bitched that he didn’t do enough! What, is he supposed to piggyback them on and off the plane too? Maybe don a nice little French Maid outfit and serve drinks mid-flight as well?

Ungrateful sons of bitches.

He could have left your ass in the blazing sun to be used for target practice. The least you can do is acknowledge his efforts.

* One such staging area just outside Beirut has become affectionately known as 'Brown Town'.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

HEA 101 - An Introduction to Practical Office Hygiene

Imagine the scene:

A male employee walks into the Men’s washroom and walks up to the urinal, where, after unzipping himself and fumbling around for a moment, he sighs in relief as he begins to piss. After a few moments, he shakes himself off, unzips his pants back up as he turns around and walks back to the sink. He already knows that this workplace of ours, being the sterile and sanitary place it is, demands that he wash his hands before returning to work. He begins to run the tap and, ever so delicately - like a kitten pawing at a leaky faucet - dabs his fingertips into the trickling water.

Okay, my first note of concern: “JUST YOUR FINGERTIPS?!” Who are you kidding, dude? I don’t know about you, but either this guy has a chopstick for a penis or he’s damn well short changing everyone else on not thoroughly washing his hands. I’m concerned either way.


Look needle dick, I don’t care how nimble your finger dexterity is in retrieving your Johnson from your pants - wash your fucking hands! Dig? Every time I finish pissing I’m like a fucking ER doctor in there scrubbing up before surgery. I’m practically elbows-deep in the sink and working up a good lather with sterilizing soap.

What can I say? Some say I’ve been blessed.

But the scene continues:

While he wiggles his fingers underneath the dribbling tap, he begins to check himself out in the mirror. I can see it register in his eyes: “My God! You are a sexy bitch, aren’t you?” Then his eyes lock onto something in his reflection, and before you know it, he brings his fingers up and begins to preen himself. A real Cinderella getting ready for the Ball. The process quickly culminates into his running his other wet fingertips through his hair for that, oh, so fashionable “wet look”.

Good God - I’m going to puke.

I’m practically agape by this time over watching this guy run his pissy hands through his hair.

Is he so blind to that dipshit he sees in the mirror that he doesn’t mind foregoing basic sanitary practices? This guy obviously has the personal hygiene of a Tijuana donkey show fluffer. I almost think I can hear his thoughts: “You know what would make me look even more hip n’ cool? Running some pissy fingers through my hair to give it that added just-got-pissed-on sheen.”

Do us all the favor, buddy, and just do what you failed to do when you first walked in here to take a piss – get a grip!

Somebody turn this guy over to the ‘Health & Safety’ department as a walking contamination site. Here’s the proof that we have to resort ourselves to posting ‘Please Remember to Wash Your Hands!’ signs everywhere.

Way to go work yourself up that Evolutionary Ladder, piss boy.


Sunday, July 16, 2006

Notes From the Ground Zero at Corporate Hell (Part VII 1/2)

It’s been a long time since I let you readers into the masochist playground of Corporate Hell. But new responsibilities in my current position also demand an unfounded sense of discretion as well. Sure there have been little blogbits on the odd Satanist, or two, that I have encountered along the way, but nothing too meaty – until now.

In recent months, I have assumed a position of leadership at my workplace. Yes, yes, I know…I’ve become one of those clueless Gestapo managerial types I used to rave on endlessly about back back in the da. But what can I say? The old paycheck just wasn’t keeping my fat ass in the high-caloried lifestyle that I was growing into. Besides, it’d be fun to see it from the other side for a change.

At best, I can boss people around from time to time and use the refrigerator in the manager’s private cafeteria.

And so, at times, I am often sought out by my work peers to offer some insightful council on rather sticky workplace topics. One such particular topic matter now that it’s summer once again is that regarding the female dress code.

I know, I know, for any other red-blooded civilized man, this is a non-topic. Let them wear whatever the hell they want, the skimpier and more revealing the better. Who am I to frown in the face of such magnificent fleshy beauty? It is the nicer weather outside after all!

But those who reign supreme in the workplace seldom see it that way. It always comes down to the issue of “professionalism”. An over-exposing of breasts and skin is considered to be an office place faux pas. Well, if boobs were to be properly presented in a particular arranged appealing sort of way, I’d consider that to be pretty professional in itself. Not like those tragic trailer park uggo’s who wear tacky tube tops that allow their healthy truck stop cleavage to spill out like loaves of over-baked bread. It takes skill to look good.

Let's face it, men like tits...they like big tits better. Unless they're fags in which case they say stupid things like "anything more than a handful is a waste". Whatever, Rock, you obviously like little boys.

But what do I know? I’m just a single horny male coping in this hot sea of fleshy wonders. It's all I can do but prevent my heart from exploding in my chest every time a good looking girl walks by. And it's hard enough concealing my erection for 7.4 hours worth of my workday as it is.

So recently, a fellow colleague of mine who was looking for some empathy in what she was wearing brought me into such a situation. It seems that she had just been slapped with “corrective action” from her team manager in regards to her chosen outfit that day.

Her first words, as she stood up before me, threw out her arms, and opened herself up invitingly for observation, will ring out in my ears for years to come:

“Look at me. What do you think?”

I restrained myself from checking her out. My eyes continued their contact directly with hers and all but bore holes into the back of her skull; sweat droplets began to bead on my forehead. It felt like blood vessels were rupturing in my brain with the intense concentration required to not let my eyes sneak downward for a quick peak at her supple womanly features.


Here is a girl, and a beautiful one at that, inviting herself to be scoped out like a buffet menu item, and I can’t even allow myself to indulge her. Normally, situations such as this would set me back a few bucks. But not today - ohhh, no! Today it’s just being given away free for the taking. It’s tits on tap! And I have to be “professional”.

It’s a cruel world, dear reader.

This is not right! Inside, I turned into that slobbery Wolf from that ‘Red Hot Riding Hood’ cartoon of my childhood – howling, licking my chops, and pounding the counter with my fist. “Fly away with me to the Riviera and it will be a beautiful thing. I will get you diamonds, pearls-everything!” Externally, of course, I must have made a great impression of a kettle about to boil over. But still my eyes did not waver.

Oh boy.

My body then made a sudden ackward movement as if it was trying to run in several directions at once. Panic began to set in. My eyes began to burn as I struggled to prevent myself from crumbling like a stale Saltine. I would rather have been standing on the face of the sun than right there powerless in front of this angry girl just then.

Somewhere along the line, I have been relieved of my manliness. Since assuming my new position, I have trained myself to avoid such womanly temptations and maintain proper eye level contact with everyone, female and male co-workers alike. All I see at the workplace now are floating heads *; bodiless persons bobbing through the work aisles and in the cafeteria. Somebody could be wearing a purple thong made of chinchilla pelts and gold nipple tassels and I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.


Damn you Corporate American for robbing me of my natural machismo!

Things should be simpler. If I had my way, one of my duties would be to stand at the front doors and inspect each female associate that enters the building from head to toe. Those found to be wearing too much clothing or not conducting themselves in an otherwise titillating way, would be sent home immediately to strip down before returning to work.

It would be Hell, of course, but somebody has to do it.

Instead, I nodded and smiled like a retarded chimpanzee as the girl pleaded me her case. That is to say, I empathized my ass off and quickly walked away thinking unsexy thoughts.

"My nana in the nana in the shower…my nana in the shower…"

The real tragedy in this whole proper dress code debate is that I have to wear dress shirts, slacks and a tie every day. Shit, as it is, I'd rather come to work wearing a skimpy low cut fuck me dress too. I sure as shit would be much more relaxed - not to mention comfortable! But I'm sure there's some stipulation in the halloed Human Resource employee's guide that would forbid the exposing of any sweaty man boobs as well.

And who could blame them.

* Which, when you stop to think about it, is rather creepy.

Friday, July 07, 2006

A Brief History of Horseshit

Look who’s suddenly become all Mr. Mack Daddy – Steven Hawking!

Hawking, arguably one of the most brilliant minds on the planet, or indeed mankind, showed up in Hong Kong this past week to address a sold-out audience at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology.

But before we delve into the whole nitty-gritty of the Hawking Hong Kong to-do, lets first look at the bigger picture – is that his newly installed Swedish scalp massage, or is Steven actually getting lucky there?

This does nothing to encourage my poor bruised male ego. I can walk, talk, open doors, and generally just do more than sit there and grin like a retarded chimpanzee, yet I’m lucky to find a date on Friday nights, and R2-fucking-D2 here looks like he gets more pussy than Warren Jeffs! And we’re not talking about girls with faces put together like ransom notes either – we’re talking about super hot blondes with primo sets of meat balloons! Now, either he, unbeknownst to the world, is hung like a mutant bull or somebody has some “discretionary charges” made to their Black Card.

Sure, he’s super smart and all, but how sexy do you think it really gets in the bedroom come luvin’ time?

“Th-ats…it, ba-by, tou-ch…me… the-re. Fa-ster. Oh…ye-ah. Who-z…your…dad-dy?”

I image feeding old people would be more sexually stimulating. Not really your typical Big Bang theory.

Anyway, according to the muppet in the motorcart, the survival of the human race depends on its ability to find new homes elsewhere in the universe because there's an increasing risk that a disaster will destroy Earth. Oh goodie.

"We won't find anywhere as nice as Earth unless we go to another star system," added Hawking.


Just like that.

Is he really implying that we need to colonize outer space in order to save the species? Yikes! I can barely step outside my front door some days and this dude wants me to try my luck in some whole other star system? Sure, sure, Stevie. Whatever you say. Just make sure you remember to pack lots of Haagen-Daas and cancel the 'Penthouse Letters' subscription.

He said that if humans can avoid killing themselves in the next 100 years, they should have space settlements that can continue without support from Earth.

"It is important for the human race to spread out into space for the survival of the species," Hawking said. "Life on Earth is at the ever-increasing risk of being wiped out by a disaster, such as sudden global warming, nuclear war, a genetically engineered virus or other dangers we have not yet thought of."

Pretty cheery guy, huh? Or maybe he’s just all 'post coital'.

One of the best-known theoretical physicists of his generation, Hawking has done groundbreaking research on black holes and the origins of the universe, proposing that space and time have no beginning and no end. Of course, you need half a dozen hits of strong LSD to understand any of it. This recent public declaration, however, shows a more radical departure from his past researches, and is reminiscent of the work of American astrophysicist Carl Sagan, who was a believer in the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence.

Sounds like the typical bullshit people talk about in their dorm rooms when they get high if you ask me. What’s so impressive about that? Lord knows I choked back more than my fair share of bucket bongs and came up with some pretty wacky far out theories – but you don’t see me acting all smart n’ shit.

What is “theoretical physics” anyway? I think theoretical shit up all the time and nobody pays me any attention, much less hands me a PhD. Of course I don’t have any fancy motorized wheelchair or travel with a hot blonde fluffer, but at least I know that the ‘ol Agent Mulder routine is passe, dude.

Who wants to colonize the Moon, or Mars? I’ve seen plenty of pictures of the Moon’s surface and it doesn’t exactly look like a kickin’ place. Likewise, all I know about Mars is what I learned in Schwarzenegger’s ‘Total Recall’. And although the thought of being serviced by chicks with three tits is not altogether unappealing; creepy taxi drives with insect arms are not. I think I’ll stick it out here.

Besides, for the billions of kajillions of dollars it’ll take to make any of this science fiction space colonization mumbo-jumbo possible, why not just invest it instead into fixing the place up? Eliminate fossil fuels and implement cleaner and more economical sources of renewable power maybe? Hello? Repair the Earth’s ozone, perhaps? Anyone? Replant those rainforests? You know - return it the way it was in the first fucking place!

And this guys some kind of genius?

In other dipshit genius news, Hawking also announced his intention to write a children’s book about the universe aimed at the same age group as the Harry Potter books. Does anybody else smell ‘Contact 2’?

Way to jump on the bandwagon, R2.


Thursday, July 06, 2006

Taepo Jelly Dong-2

As Americans celebrated their Fourth of July holiday with the usual prerequisite of colorful explosives and kegs of light beer, North Korea shot off some of their own fireworks by test-firing four short-range missiles.

The ‘Taepo Dong-2’ rocket, that flies no one knows where, no one knows what for, and can fall onto anyone’s head, represents practically the entire North Korean political behavior— impetuous, unpredictable, defiantly juxtaposed to the rest of the world, and thus certainly dangerous. Of course, the choice of names for their latest military effort, however, exudes all the perpetrated fear of an old man performing Tai chi in the park.

Sure it is the largest ever North Korean ballistic missile exercise to date, and potentially represents a serious security threat from foreign soil – but ‘Taepo Dong-2’? Shit, it sounds like the prototype for some adult novelty toy.

Why not just call it the ‘Long Fat Wang’ instead? Doesn’t exactly strike fear in the hearts of men, does it? Well, not real manly men anyway. But then again, the United States had their ‘Fat Man and Little Boy’ back in the 40’s. So what do we know?

Is it a rule that all phallic-shaped weapons of mass destruction be given phallic-sounding names? Is this written into the Geneva Convention or something?

North Korea (the Democratic People's Republic of Korea) conducted a series of ballistic missile tests, launching a total of six missiles during the early hours of 5 July to apparently restrict foreign intelligence-gathering capabilities as well as achieve some element of surprise. Initial reports indicate that these six systems consisted of one ‘Taepo Dong 2’ and five 'Scud'-class missiles. Another seventh, as yet unidentified missile was also fired at 0822 (GMT).

While the ‘Taepo Dong 2’ failed shortly after lift-off, it is likely to still have provided the North Koreans with valuable experience and some limited data collection. Both of these will obviously be funneled into future developments of the system. Additionally, the successful launching of six 'Scud'-class missiles demonstrates that Korean People's Army missile units have achieved a significant level of operational readiness and that the missile systems are developmentally mature.

"The Taepo Dong-2 in a two-stage ballistic missile configuration could deliver a several-hundred-kg payload up to 10,000 km – sufficient to strike Alaska, Hawaii, and parts of the continental United States with a light payload, namely California. If the North uses a third stage similar to the one used on the Taepo Dong-1 in 1998 in a ballistic missile configuration, then the Taepo Dong-2 could deliver a several-hundred-kg payload up to 15,000 km – sufficient to strike all of North America."

In its two-stage configuration, the ‘Taepo Dong-2’ missile is believed to use four ‘No Dong’ engines - *giggle* - clustered together as the first stage and a single ‘No Dong’ - *giggle* - as the second stage. Not only is such a missile at least five-times more likely to fail than a single-stage ‘No Dong’ missile (itself far from reliable) - *giggle* - but also sounds more like something Wil E. Coyote would think up in his ever futile quest to catch the Roadrunner. The fact that the ‘Taepo Dong-2’ missile test fired by the North Koreans failed 35 seconds after being launched seems to confirm its Wil E. Coyote status.

Does anyone still think we’re talking about missiles here?

Besides, offering a preverbal face slap to ‘ol Dubya on the world stage, I think the whole notion that North Korea intends to flex its military might on the States is preposterous. Besides, even if they really wanted to attack the US mainland and their ‘Taepo Dong-2’ missile still didn’t work, they could just wrap it in blue lyrca and California would just inevitably come to them.

In the past, the United States has deterred the likes of Joseph Stalin, Nikita Khrushchev, Leonid Brezhnev, and Mao Zedong. So they are no strangers to dealing with mutinous numbnuts with strange names. None of those leaders seriously contemplated attacking the United States. And the reason for their restraint was quite simple: they knew that such an attack would mean certain retaliation resulting in their own annihilation. So why would an erratic and unpredictable leader such as North Korea's Kim Jong-Il * not be similarly deterred? It cannot be because he is any more brutal than America's previous adversaries. Khrushchev and Brezhnev were thuggish, and Mao and Stalin were genocidal monsters. Likewise, a credible case cannot be made that Kim Jong-Il is more erratic and unpredictable than the tyrants the United States deterred in the past. Stalin epitomized paranoia, and Mao was the architect of China's utterly bizarre Cultural Revolution in the late 1960s and early 1970s – at the very time that China was acquiring a nuclear-weapons capability.

He’s just another dude with a bad haircut, over-sized sunglasses, a severe Napoleon complex and an inept sense of name. And is it just me, or does anybody else picture Long Duk Dong from Sixteen Candles whenever they see his picture in the news?

“ more yanky my wanky, the Donger need food!"

Go on…picture it. I’m right, aren’t I?

Like the other members of the Axis of Evil, the threat posed by North Korea is overrated. The U.S. economy is more than 600 times larger than North Korea's, and North Korean defense spending is less than 2 percent of current U.S. defense expenditures. Basically, North Korean spends as much on its entire military campaign as the United States military spends on powdered eggs. Moreover, the U.S. military is far and away the most modern and technologically advanced in the world. For example, the U.S. Air Force's F-15 Eagle and F-16 Fighting Falcon are considered the world's premier fighter aircraft, despite their designs dating back to the 1970s. Similarly, the U.S. Army's Abrams tank does not have an equal. No other country in the world has a Navy with large-deck aircraft carriers. And the U.S. military has a virtual monopoly on precision-guided or "smart" weapons, such as the Global Positioning System (GPS)-guided Joint Direct Attack Munition or JDAM. By comparison, North Korea has to make do with older weapons purchased from either the former Soviet Union or China. As a result, the United States possesses bone-crushing military dominance, so it is hard to imagine why a country like North Korea would cause a superpower to shake in its boots. That’d be like General Patton being intimidated by a one-legged rickshaw driver.

If I’m going to be made to live in fear, it’s not going to be over some stocky, rice-sucking dipshit. So lets deal with this appropriately. Let's just send a telegram threatening to kick the living kimchi out of him if he attempts to launch anything more than a beer fart into the atmospshere.

If that doesn't work - nuke the slanty-eyed bitch.

* The original predecessor to cool, hip vernacular, Kim Jong-Il has sparked other noted world leaders to change their names to something more proactive as well. For example, George Bush has contemplated renaming himself George Phat-Bush, and Tony Blair as Tony Blair-Sick.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

The Month in Review

It’s Canada Day already?

Man, oh man! Was that really a month that just went by since my last post, or has the usual smell of bullshit just started to dissipate around here? Heaven’s forbid it should be the latter. So I guess that means a whole month has indeed gone by and mankind wasn't obliterated in the fiery funaces of Hell.


Trying to explain my absence from these pages by somehow articulating what’s been going on here in ‘ol Crazytigerland would be like trying to explain Shoestring Theory to a guinea pig. Let’s just say that between work, weddings, birthdays, more work, and everything else, my precious bitching time has been broken up worse than Barbaro’s hind leg.

But, thankfully, I have a few minutes now that I can once again embrace my inner jackass, and try and to squeeze in a whole month’s worth of madness in this one post. Or, you can save yourself the reading time altogether and simply go outside and rub dirt in your eyes for about the same effect…only more fun.

But, first things first, what the hell is Canada Day exactly? There has to be more to it than beer, BBQ, and lighting off fireworks. Originally, on June 20, 1868, a proclamation was signed by the then Governor General, Lord Monck, calling upon all of:

“Her Majesty's loving subjects throughout Canada, to join in the celebration of the anniversary of the formation of the union of the British North America provinces in a federation under the name of Canada on July 1st”.

Only then, they called it Dominion Day. *

Since then, there has been no real record of organized Canada Day ceremonies after this first anniversary. On the 50th anniversary of the Confederation, in 1917 the new Center Block of the Parliament Buildings, under construction at the time, was dedicated as a memorial to the Fathers of Confederation and to the valor of Canadians fighting in the First World War in Europe.

“Paaaaaaaarrr-tay!” Pass the Cheese Doodles.

Since then, we Canadians have basically stuck to getting as drunk as all hell and blowing shit up. Whether it be out in the backwoods of Algonquin Park, the concert grounds at some community park, or just some backyard family BBQ, you can bet your Labatts that there will be booze and live rounds involved. And apart from an inevitable bad case of gas afterwards, we pretty much enjoy it that way.

And so here I am, with cold brewskie in hand, and some time to kill before the big ceremonious blowing of shit up. Where does one even begin in contemplating the last month?

Even though we all somehow managed to wake up the morning after the much feared 666 Apocalypse, early in the month, June was not particularly kind to many in the celebrity world. This month alone has marked more sudden deaths than the Stanley Cup finals.

Just consider some of the people on this list:

Vince Welnick (former keyboardist for the Grateful Dead)
Billy Preston (best known for his work with the Beatles)
John H. Oates **
Peter Greenwell (British composer)
Sheik Abd-Al-Rahman (spiritual advisor to Al-Quida)
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi (leader of Al-Quida in Iraq)
Bill Lamb (public television executive)
Claydes Charles Smith (of ‘Kool & the Gang’ fame)
Moose, (Eddie the dog, from televisions ‘Frasier’)
Charles Barrow (former justice of the Texas Supreme Court)
Roberta Weston (claimed to be world’s oldest woman at 118)
Harriot (the infamous Galápagos tortoise believed to be the oldest animal in the world and allegedly owned by Charles Darwin himself)
Melvin Watson (American Baptist minister)
Richard Stahl (actor)
Charles Older (Los Angeles Superior Court judge)
Nijiro Tokuda (oldest man in Japan, 111)
Jeffrey Harbors (Microsoft executive)
Three Guatanamo inmates (suspected terrorists and rally-er’s for Global Anarchy)

None, however, had quite the impact in the media as Aaron Spelling, the renowned larger-than-life Hollywood producer whose recipe for success was modeled on his “sun, fun, blonding and bonding” philosophy. Throughout his Guinness World Record holding career (for having over 3000 produced lifetime shows), the man was responsible for more pubescent boners before 9:00PM than both Daisy Duke’s short-shorts, and Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction combined.

Best remembered for his work with ‘Beverly Hills 90210’, not to mention helping spawn that weird gap between daughter Tori’s breasts, Spelling has resided in his Bel Air mansion with an extravagant lifestyle to make Robin Leach suffer heart palpitations. His huge estate of 123 wrap-around rooms includes a bowling alley, gym, swimming pool, tennis court, screening room, and not one, but TWO, “Gift Wrapping Rooms” for his wife. A man accustomed to being served on silver trays by a personal butler, Spelling was diagnosed with oral cancer in 2001 and has seen his health steadily declining up until his recent stroke on June 18th. For years, the man hasn’t been strong enough to crack walnuts, but he wipes his ass with thousand dollar bills.

Not bad for a former cheerleader, eh?

Personally, I’m not so upset with this turn of events. In his later years, Spelling has remade many of my childhood favorites, including Charlie’s Angels, The Love Boat, Dynasty, the Mod Squad, Starsky & Hutch, T. J. Hooker, Melrose Place, Models Inc, and Fantasy Island. More recently, he assisted in having many of these television classics butchered for the big screen. Single-handedly, Spelling has been directly responsible for murdering more of my childhood memories than my bucket bong in University.

Nevertheless, Spelling will be remembered as Hollywood’s true alchemist; turning shit into gold for over 30 years.

Meanwhile, head honcho evil doer, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the man behind the kidnappings, beheadings, and assassinations, lays at the bottom of a pile of rocks after a US air strike in Baghdad. Funny how allied forces couldn’t find hide nor hair of him while he was alive and kicking, but they can locate and identify his dead carcass in a pile of rubble from orbit.

C’est la vie…

Thankfully, however, a terrorist plot was foiled and co-conspirators were arrested in Toronto, only 100 short kilometers from my own front door. Seventeen would-be Islamic terrorists have been accused of planning an attack on the downtown headquarters of the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (CSIS), as well as other targets such as the CN Tower and the Toronto Stock Exchange. Police allege that three tons of ammonium nitrate was to be used for the creation of massive bombs.

The suspects regularly undertook weapons training at a rural property 150 kilometers north of Toronto. While "foreign-looking" individuals seldom raise eyebrows in cosmopolitan Toronto, the presence of a large group of Arab and African men in camouflage uniforms running through backwoods Ontario with assault rifles inevitably aroused the suspicion of local residents who soon informed the police. The terrorists-in-training, or TIT’s for short, should have definitely considered a more ‘Queer Eye for the Terrorist Guy’ approach to their training compound. The camp was quickly put under surveillance, including over-flights by police helicopters. The investigation of the group began two years ago through CSIS monitoring of jihadi websites and was later joined by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP).

The group appears to have been rather inept, continuing their operations even after it should have been evident that they were under surveillance. A more professional terrorist would have been aware that large orders of ammonium nitrate are routinely reported to police. The three tons of fertilizer was a ridiculous amount that filled three pallets—only one ton was needed to carry out the devastating 1995 Oklahoma City bombing. Police switched the fertilizer with a harmless substance in a "controlled delivery," otherwise known as “the ‘ol Switcheroo” to be all technically precise for a moment, similar to the procedure used in narcotics investigations.

And thus we Canadians have narrowly avoided an ugly world calamity once again. But then again, a blind and retarded chimpanzee could have busted these guys.

In lesser significant world news, a black bear wandered into a West Milford, New Jersey, back yard, was confronted by a 15-pound (7-kilogram) tabby cat …and fled up a neighbor's tree. It seems, Jack, the clawless cat, was apparently upset at having his turf invaded by this pussy of a bear. So much so, that when the bear finally came down to bid a hasty retreat, with one hiss and what must have been one helluva “don’t fuck with me” look, Jack forced the bear up yet another tree.

Somewhere there is one humiliated mother bear shaking her head in shame. Clearly, here is an animal for which becoming a rug will be a step up. The bear, weighing in around 200-pounds by comparison, should have his bear license revoked immediately. It is well documented that bears will kill and eat just about anything. There is enough information available for people on how to avoid bears and to survive bear attacks – I’ve even been given the rundown once myself – but if this bear is anything to go by, we really have nothing to worry about all along.

Lucky for the bear however, the incident didn’t occur in Oklahoma. Signed by Gov. Brad Henry, Oklahoma became the fifth state this month to approve legislature that condones harsh justice for repeat sex offenders. Under the measure, anyone convicted twice for rape, sodomy or lewd molestation involving children under 14 can face the death penalty.

Despite the opposing concerns for this new state legislature – I would like to say BRAV-fucking-O! I personally subscribe to the old proverb: “If thou boinketh little children, thou shall be subject to being sodomized with a chainsaw.” Naysayers to this anti-child molesting bill should just shut-the-fuck up and consider themselves lucky that Sharon Stone isn’t their state governor, otherwise Oklahoma might have had to change it’s state motto to: “Cum and Enjoy our Minors”. Then Oklahoma City would have inevitably become known as the Blowjob Capital of the US.

How can you oppose legislature designed to protect minors from such heinous sexual atrocities anyway? Protesting against this bill must make you about as popular in your neighborhood as Oprah Winfrey at a rap concert for fuck sakes! What possible reason could you possibly have to justify a lesser harsh penalty for repeat, say that again – repeat – child molesters? I wonder how these insensitive moolyaks would feel on the topic after some tattooed Arians have made a playground out of their ass and come back for seconds?

June was also rocked with the mega-news that long running television sitcom, Will & Grace, was finally being cancelled from regular Prime Time syndication after eight seasons.

Oh, no! (Insert gasp of despair here)

Whatever are the gays to do now?

Personally, I would rather bait crocodiles with my manhood than tune into an episode of this Magnus Homo Opus, but many people are devastated with the show’s cancellation. So, the big question is what, or who, is going to fill the gay void on television now?

Inevitably, the much anticipated 'Will & Grace' Season Finale is bound to create a huge homosexual vacuum in Hollywood as all the big time TV producers are now scrambling to find the next big gay thing. All the world knows that television sitcom junkies love themselves a flaming queen, so I predict it’s only a matter of time before their girlish squeals of mercy are heard. Then we will once again be blessed with a new Prime Time syndicated program with the mandated over-exaggerated stereotypical homosexual flamer that either lives next door, or just shows up periodically in tight pants.

Aaron Spelling, eat your gay heart out.

Fortunately, fruit lovers everywhere will be able to consul one another at the upcoming release of Superman Returns in theaters everywhere. Yes, there will be enough male frottage going on in the darkened aisles to spark forest fires.

Internet communities and the popular media have all been abuzz throughout the month of June with the continued debate over whether Superman is, in fact, to be the next big gay icon. After the recent commercial success of ‘Brokeback Mountain’, and having extensively marketed itself primarily to young men as its target audience, the question has now erupted over the superhero’s sexuality faster than a speeding bullet. Movie producers now find themselves dodging more punches than Naomi Campbell’s personal assistant.

But, c’mon - really!

The man wears a tight blue leotard and flies around in a red cape, for Christ Sake! He sports a package that looks like a Norwegian Spruce wrapped in lyrca. What else could he be? Sure, fashion savant Carson Kressley will throw a hissy fit over his matching blue and red outfit, but Superman is about as gay as Richard Simmons with a free ticket to the Feast of Saturnalia. But then again, superheroes have always been gay.

Lets look at the facts.

1) Like most gay kids, superheroes have to keep their “difference” a secret.
2) Comic books = soap operas.
3) Superheroes—let’s face it—are totally hot.

Res Ipsa Loquitor. ***

It’s time to take the bull dyke by the horns and recognize superheroes for who, and what, they really are – costumed hopefuls for amateur gay fetish videos. Let’s face it, real “heroes” smoke, drink, wears sunglasses at night, has a marriage on the rocks, and loves it when a plan comes together.

‘Nuff said.

In other news, the heterosexual superchild Shiloh Jolie-Pitt was finally dropped from Angelina’s uterus in the celebrity birth of the century. The whole delivery, taken place in the small African country of Namibia, was more mysterious than the Priory of Sion. Just after we all started to breathe a little easier after the whole ‘Birthapalooza’ surrounding Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, the media hounds are at it again.

This time, the paparazzi were shut out, not by tricky hospital security, but by the Namibian government at the border by punishment of being fed to hungry jackals. Boy, the Namibians sure love them their Brangelina, huh?

Personally, I couldn’t give two shits.

Of course, there was some good that took place this month as well. Warren Buffett, billionaire investor and founder of Berkshire Hathaway, has announced he is donating much of his fortune to charity. Over time, most of Buffett's $44 billion in stock holdings will be given to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.

The gesture constitutes the world’s largest charitable donation. In the form of Berkshire Hathaway shares, Buffett signed papers that give $31 billion of his fortune to fund the Gates Foundation's work in fighting infectious diseases and reforming education.

You can almost feel the heat friction in the air being generated from thousands of greasy palms rubbing together in eager anticipation. Never has it been so good to be so badly off. Shit, it finally pays to be a Sudanese orphan with AIDS. Those bitches have it made!

For the kind of money we’re talking about – I expect results by the end of the year. I expect to see newly planted rainforests, a solution to Global Warming, a cure for prostate cancer, herpes, leukemia, hepatitis, lupus, MS, ADS, AIDS, and SARS. World hunger will finally be eradicated in Third World countries, and a crystal chandelier will be hanging in every dilapidated shack, hovel, shanty, mud hut, and cardboard box the world over!

I expect results, damn it! No more excuses. For $31 billion, at least build a huge glass dome to protect us healthy, law-abiding citizens from the outbreak of any infectious diseases.

Yes, it’s been quite the ‘Monate Mirabilis’, hasn’t it?

June has gone on longer than Cher's last Farewell Tour. No wonder I found it difficult to put fingers to keyboard – this month has been nuttier than a box of squirrels. It’s a good thing that I’m not some bored, over-worked and under-appreciated schlep leaning on the kill switch at the local NORAD Missile Base, because I would have done us all the favor and turned us into space dust by now.

Thankfully, it’s now July. And with it comes a whole new clean slate with which to soil and complain about.

Stay tuned…

* Nowadays, there are other popular proactive movements lobbying in favor of renaming July 1st as ‘It’s a Free Day Off Day, eh?’, ‘Screw America Day’, and ‘Just Give Us Our Fireworks and Fuck off Day’

** Thankfully, upon reading the obituary, I learned that this particular John Oates was the Professor Emeritus of Ancient History and Classics at Duke University and one of America's leading papyrologists and not the famed 80’s quaffed rockstar.

*** That means, “the thing speaks for itself”, for all you monolingual rhubarbs.