Den of the Crazytigerrabbitman

And They Called It 'Puppy Love'

2011-03-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

Now, I’m usually up for your standard, run-of-the-mill puppy-drowning as I am for your typical baby seal clubbing, cat cleansing and primate genocide, but I also enjoy myself a public hate-on as well. No one ever likes to be left behind when it comes to a good ‘ol fashioned Internet Rage-a-thon.

This lesson was learned recently by a mysterious woman who was videotaped tossing puppies into a raging river. The video was posted originally to YouTube where it was later pulled, but not before being picked up by other sister video sharing sites sparking off a worldwide witch hunt for the puppy-drowning perpetrator. Certainly, it wasn’t a strong case for ‘puppy love’.

The video shows a blonde-haired girl in a Little Red Riding Hood outfit plucking squealing puppies out of a bucket and hurling them into a river with all the concentrated effort of an Olympic javelin thrower. At the moment, it is not clear if the video is authentic or a hoax but that didn’t stop the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) from jumping into the foray by offering $2,000 reward for information leading to the woman’s capture and arrest.

And with that, the Internet gods became angry…very angry.

This is just the latest in a rash of recent acts of animal cruelty to be posted to the Internet. Back in February 2009, videos surfaced of some 13-year-old future serial killer abusing his cat, Dusty. On separate occasions, Dusty was subject to beatings, near drownings, and harsh vocal taunting that would make Christian Bale stand up and cheer. The Oklahoma teen was located and convicted within 24 hours.
Even more recently, a U.K. woman from Coventry was filmed by security cameras petting, and then dumping a cat in a dumpster outside her home. The cat was found and rescued 15 hours later. What has the world come to when you can board airplanes with monkeys stuffed down your pants, but toss a cat into a dumpster and the whole world instantly knows about it.

I say, if you can’t beat them (literally) – join them.

Let’s create an event like the Olympics or Pan Am games – every four years - where abusers can compete against one another in a more controlled and monitored environment. Dedicated animal abusers from around the globe would answer the call and gather together to compete in such events as the ‘Catput’, or the ‘Puppy Toss’. Perhaps there could be even a multi-sporting event that requires “athletes” to incorporate their sporting prowess with their love for animal cruelty. Maybe a biathlon-style event where in between stretches of cross-country skiing, contestants are required to pick off a cat on a fence from 100ft with a rifle.

Imagine the inaugural launch of the new 2010 ‘International Animal Abuser Games’ on ESPN next year!

The Philippine File (Part II)

2010-11-08T17:21:00.000-08:00

(Where I chose to keep my entries completely random in my last Philippine travelogue, I have instead kept them in order this time. Partly because this was a more disciplined type of journey and not so random; with a more personal purpose in mind and, partly, because it’s the only way I might actually make a little sense - if any - of the whole experience.)

February 9th, Lester B. Pearson Airport - Gate C34; Toronto, ON (10:30pm)

I’m getting ready to board the plane for my second overseas adventures in the Philippines. I’m loaded up with 25kg of peanut butter, protein bars, Kraft Dinner, sport gels, whiskey, GPS unit, heart rate monitor, hydration belt, spin shoes, clothes, toiletries, and enough chocolate treats and maple candies to give the entire Filipino Customs stage two diabetes. I’m a little more trepidatious about this particular trip as I am expecting to deal with a whole new host of unique challenges and obstacles in comparison to my last trip over in October. In particular, I am intending to stick as closely as possible to my triathlon training while there despite the 93-degree heat, insane humidity, massive pollution levels, urban congestion, lunatic drivers, etc. Also, I am also going to attempt to live as locally and as independent from restaurants and fast food chains as possible. Yup, I’m going to make all my own meals. This is going to be a hugely daunting task as I don’t expect the food will come in nice, pretty, conveniently wrapped cellophane packaging*, oh no, I’m expecting you buy the whole freaking animal – lips, tits and asshole included. I’m quickly going to have to transform myself into the Iron Chef and figure out to do exactly with all the new and mysterious indigenous foods so I don’t come back a 300lb lard ass after too many Quarter-pounder meals at MacRaunches.

* Or so I thought…

February 9th, Gate C34 (11:15pm)

As luck would have it, I’m leaving just in time to avoid the new winter storm heading across Western Canada and threatening to dump nearly 10cm of snow tonight and a severe chance of “freezing fog”. What the fuck is that exactly? Wouldn’t that just make it…snow?

February 9th, Flight CX827 to Hong Kong (11:45pm)

I am seated to a young Soviet couple heading to Cebu to go scuba diving. Oh goodie! I can’t wait to past the 15 hour plane ride with spirited conversations about Glasnost and Dostoevsky. The good news is that my chances of getting some quality sleep on this flight are definitely looking up.

February 10th (I think), Flight CX827 to Hong Kong (12:45am)

I have been asleep for the past 12 hours. Thank you, Sleep Aid Liquidcaps! The only bad thing about his flight so far is my case of bed head from sleeping with my hoodie on. I look like Ed Grimley from SCTV. Even my egg and sausage croissant they gave us earlier in the flight was tolerable…and by tolerable, I mean I’ve survived thus far.

February 10th, Hong Kong International Airport (6:30am)

Hong Kong International Airport is a different world at 6:30am local time. Currently, it’s only me, a few other haggard looking travelers from my flight and about a dozen masked custodians all vacuuming, sweeping, and polishing the vast empty expanses of floor.

I found a meal of rolled banana pancakes and Gatorade in the only airport café open and am now bracing myself for the final leg of the journey to Manila in another two hours with a little light yoga…anything to get my mind off the brain-suckingly-repetitive flute music playing over the airport PA system. It’s enough to make you bore holes in your ear drums with a power drill…

February 10th, Flight CX907 to Manila (8:00am)

Crammed into another sardine can with another hundred weary and irritable passengers. Looking out the plane window I can see the breaking dawn over Kowloon Bay and the early morning mist wafting over Phoenix Mountain in the distance. Hopefully, the take off will be a bit smoother than landing I just survived into Hong Kong so I don’t toss my banana pancakes all over the woman beside me. Definitely, not the kind of thing you buy a souvenir t-shirt to commemorate:

“I went to Hong Kong and all I got was yakked on my by a giant nauseous North American.”

February 12th, Renaissance Condo’s; Manila, Philippines (12:30pm)

Successfully made it through Day One! Grocery shopping has proven to be as difficult as I expected. I can’t just buy turkey deli meat for example; I have to buy the whole fucking turkey - feathers, beaks n’ all. This totally goes against the grain of my personal rule I made on my last trip of never eating anything with a face. To my surprise, however, there is lots of nice, pretty cellophane wrapped packages. In fact, everything is conveniently wrapped in cellophane – fruit, veggies, fish, meat, everything! I swear, you can almost feel the ozone collapsing in on you as you load up your shopping cart with produce. The produce section alone at SM Supermarket must be responsible for the destruction of a zillion acres of Amazon rainforest, at least!

Also to note: when you say “only a little rice please”, they immediately interpret that as about 12 kilos worth.

February 13th, Renaissance Condo’s; Manila, Philippines (3:30pm)

I completed my first short run around the “neighborhood” this morning (23-degrees, 74% humidity). To my surprise, I was not the only lunatic out avoiding the heat of the day and extreme traffic congestion. Besides dodging the odd low-flying bat, the only other real hazard of running at night is maybe falling to your death in one of the seemingly bottomless potholes along the road. I’ve been warned about being mugged but, seriously, who’s going to target a fully grown man in stretchy shorts? Definitely not the kind that’s interested in my money; let me tell you! Wait…

February 13th, Transcom Center; Manila, Philippines (5:30pm)

Everyone at work seems pleased with their “Pasalubong” treats I brought. It would seem that a simple Cadbury’s Cream Egg turns your average Filipino into a raving, sugar-induced lunatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire office called in sick tomorrow due to a massive collective sugar crash.

February 14th, Renaissance Condo’s; Manila, Philippines (8:30am)

I forgot one very important amenity from the supermarket: toilet paper. I must remember to remedy this situation tomorrow before I’m reduced to wiping my ass with discarded pineapple husks.

February 14th, Antipolo Village; Rizal Province, Philippines (3:30pm)

I was fortunate enough to attend another wedding this afternoon outside the city. You haven’t lived until you’ve sat through an entire Catholic wedding conducted entirely in Tagalog.

February 14th, Renaissance Condo’s; Manila, Philippines (9:30pm)

All the local girls are lined up outside the condo’s today waiting for the opportunity to make googley-eyes at us ex-pats as we leave the building. So, this is what Mick Jagger must feel like whenever he leaves his hotel.

February 15th, Bay of Manila; Manila, Philippines (10:00am)

I went for an enjoyable – yet scorching – run along the infamous “Baywalk” between the Philippine Marina and the US Embassy to Rizal Park. I must have looked as out of place as a tap-dancing albino rhino while running along in my fancy shoes, iPod headphones, hydration belt, blinking GPS unit and heart rate monitor…judging by the mystified expressions of local passersby. It seems like I’m the highlight of their social calendar. Let me tell you, you haven’t felt out of place until an entire park of thousands suddenly stops their picnics, games of badminton, eating their ice cream cones or playing in water fountains just gawk at you as lumber by all sweaty and breathless.

February 15th, Greenhill’s; Manila, Philippines (4:00pm)

I am quickly learning the art of negotiation Filipino-style. It’s a two part process. First, it’s the display of a particularly sour and disapproving look on your face like someone has just presented you a freshly laid turd on your grandmother’s fine china plate. Second, you respond with your counter offer of approximately half the originally quoted price…and so the dance goes on. This display of disgusted looks and returned counter-offers continues until you reach a mutually agreed upon price or you just walk away altogether. It’s basically a war of shopping attrition.

February 16th, Circle’s; Shangri-la Hotel; Makati City, Philippines (1:00pm)

When I die and, hopefully, go to heaven, I will stay at the Shangri-la Hotel and feast at the Circles buffet restaurant for eternity. I absolutely gorged myself on Duck Confit, Coco van, and just about every decadent Asian, Indian and North American cuisine imaginable. I probably consumed more calories today at one sitting than most people here in the Philippines consume all week. Most notable, was the huge-ass chocolate fountain in which to dip your skewered marshmallows, fruit or, shit, anything really. I had the incredible urge to strip down, dive in and do laps around the fountain just for kicks. Of course, that might be a bit of a deterrent for the other diners to see a fat North American doing the backstroke through the pools of chocolate.

February 16th, Greenbelt; Makati City, Philippines (3:00pm)

More shopping – this time in the Prada, Gucci, Jimmy Choo, Louis Vuitton, Hugo Boss, Burberry, etc. stores of the extravagant Greenbelt Plaza. I swear, if I see another designer purse, wallet, handbag, or pair of pumps, it’ll be too fucking soon. It amazes me that there is such extravagant shopping here as most Filipino’s, as far as I can tell, don’t have a pot to piss in. Clearly, the shoppers here are not from the “have not” class of society. Who can justify spending 112,000 PHP on a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes? And while I’m on the topic, since when did the Chinese become the bench mark in high end designer women’s shoes? I think Jimmy may have a bit of a height complex maybe. Also disturbing to me are the clothing adverts in the shops that depict 14-16 year old models pouting in their 90,000 PHP t-shirts, 112,000 PHP jeans and 365,000 PHP jackets. I want to step into one of these posters and punch every one of these spoiled pre-pubescent fuckers and really give them something to pout about. These are the same trendy assholes that tormented me about my discounted BiWay duds all through high school. One thing is for sure, my own children will never be caught dead in any Hugo Boss or Gucci threads; unless they get off their asses and from in front of their Wii gaming systems and get a job to pay for it themselves.

February 17th, Ortigas; Manila, Philippines (3:30am)

Saw the biggest cockroach of my life scurrying across the sidewalk while on one of my jogs. I probably could have strapped a saddle on it and rode it back to my condo.

February 18th, Ortigas; Manila, Philippines (5:00pm)

I have been experimenting with some local cuisine, namely, Halo-Halo and Suman. Halo-Halo is a rather odd looking dessert consisting of shaved ice and milk to which is added various boiled sweet beans, fruit (mango, coconut, and caramelized plantains), sago pearls, gelatin cubes and the infamous (and almost scary-looking) purple Filipino ice cream (pig parts optional). The ingredients are mixed together until you have yourself a big bowl of purpley mush. Suman is basically sticky rice wrapped in coconut leaves and then dipped into either sugar, chocolate, or in my case, a coco jam spread I purchased from the Antipolo Village market. I equate it to a poor man’s chocolate bar.

February 19th, Texas Roadhouse; Ortigas, Manila, Philippines (5:30pm)

Watching the Olympic cross-country skiing (women’s 15k chase) at the Texas Roadhouse while chowing down on nachos and fajitas; what a juxtaposition of culture if ever there was one. It’s enough to make your head explode…but such is the entire Filipino experience if you ask me. It’s highly entertaining to watch the pint-sized Filipino servers in tight jeans, boots, and handkerchiefs taking orders in their best Texan accents*: “wha kin I get yoo, paat-nah?” Umm, how about a Filipino to Texan dictionary for starters…

I had a rather embarrassing moment when I brought it to my server’s attention that the Men’s bathroom was out of toilet paper. Suddenly, the whole restaurant was put on Orange Alert and a Texas-sized flurry of activity occurred to procure me some shit sheets while I stood there with clenched butt cheeks. It took the entire staff to find, restock and ultimately escort me back in with warm smiles and inviting gestures so I could get on with conducting my business of taking a Texas-sized dump. So, this begs the ultimate question: how many Filipino’s does it take to change a roll of toilet paper**?

* Don’t even get me started on the décor of cowboy hats, horseshoes, chuck wagon wheels, etc.

** Seven.

February 20th, Pasig City, Manila, Philippines (5:00am)

During one of my early morning jogs I ran into (literally) a military checkpoint of no fewer than a dozen soldiers armed with huge automatic rifles. Apparently in the days leading to a national presidential election, it is illegal to carry a concealed or unregistered weapon. Of course, this begs the question: what about the other 5 years and 11 months of non-election? Apparently it’s just a huge free-for-all, Cinco de Mayo style. Whatever, I was allowed to pass under scrutinizing eyes despite the two lethal weapons I was concealing in my sleeves (“the guns”).

February 21st, Pasig City, Manila, Philippines (3:30pm)

I have noticed a lot of Filipino’s walking around with weird growths and deformities on their faces. I saw a lady that had what looked like a punching bag hanging off her face and I had the momentarily impulse to make like Sugar Ray Leonard and do some speed work. I wonder if it has anything to do with the heavy carbon monoxide emissions here fucking with the parents frail, delicate DNA strands.

February 22nd, Pasig City, Manila, Philippines (5:30pm)

I was humored on my drive into the office today by a billboard advertisement for breast enhancement. Now, given the extreme, exaggerated nature of the Filipino’s, we’re talking about a three-story pair of knockers here; easily the biggest pair of breasts I have ever laid eyes on. It’s a complete wonder to me that there’s not a 5-star pile-up in front of the billboard every day. I mean, if a set of normal-sized breasts alone can distract a male driver, what do you think a pair of tits you can see from orbit are going to cause?

February 22nd, Las Fiestas Building, Pasig City, Manila, Philippines (9:30pm)

I am happy to announce that I ate from the work cafeteria (pork BBQ skewers w/ rice) and didn’t immediately drop in agonizing convulsions as the result of prehistoric strain of food poisoning; whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger I suppose. So after a few weeks in the Philippines my immune system and digestive tract must be on par with Superman. I could probably eat pure toxic waste now and not only live – but go back for seconds.

February 23rd, Flight CX864 to Bacolod, Aquino Ninoy Airport (9:00am)

Back on board one of these flying toasters they call an airplane bound for Bacolod. The U.S.S. Enterprise this is not…more like the U.S.S. Albatross by the condition of the aircraft. The airplane is more of a flying minivan. Fortunately, I am all hopped up on strong Cinnabon coffee that is one part caffeine, one part kerosene and one part rocket fuel…which is good considering I had approximately an hour of sleep last night. So if this hand-glider happens to go down I’ll have enough strength and energy to paddle my way back to shore.

I’m sitting in the front row seat so close to the front of the craft that I feel like I should be shoving dollar bills in the flight attendants stockings during her pre-flight safety routine.

February 23rd, Flight CX864 to Bacolod, Aquino Ninoy Airport (9:49am)

The pervert beside me is traveling with an “eleventeen” year old girl with whom he continues to grope and pet like you would a pet. To say he “makes my skin crawl”, would be the understatement of the year. I think I’m going to need extra shots when I land to ward off any contagious communicable diseases.

February 23rd, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines, (3:30pm)

I am once again back in No-Man’s Land. The mixed smell of street BBQ, sweat and diesel exhaust in the 90+ degree heat…in a strange way, I missed it. It’s the same Lechon vendors, the same rickety tri-bikes, same drunken karaoker’s, attentive hotel attendants, the lack of appetizing menu options, the same Godfather theme in the hotel lobby – it’s like the ‘Land that Time Forgot’.

On a side note, I wonder what acts of indiscriminate carnality the pervert from the plane is currently performing on his young plaything. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s illegal in most parts of the world and will, no doubt, be broadcast live via Internet feed on some underground fetish website somewhere.

February 23rd, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines, (3:30pm)

I am looking forward to an early morning jog down the main drag tomorrow before breakfast before the local traffic turns into a natural force on par with any hurricane, typhoon or tornado. My last 25k run into TayTay (Manila) a few days ago was about as much fun as the Bataan Death March. For 2 hours and 43 minutes, I slogged through toxic exhaust fumes and plumes of burning garbage so foul it had a beak and feathers and battled the 88-degree heat to boot. There are few things in my life that I couldn’t bare to do again…and that run is among them. I would rather castrate myself with a pair of nail clippers than relive that experience. It was almost Biblical in its torment. Hopefully, this jog will be somewhat less difficult.

February 24th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines, (6:30am)

Not such luck. I returned after 45 minutes completely covered head-to-foot in black soot. Conditions were as bad, if not, worse, than back in Manila. Hard to believe – but true. It is also only 6:30am and already 92-degrees outside. Maybe I should have gone last night while it was cooler, but “better hot than hostage” I always say.

February 24th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines, (7:30am)

The Bacolodians may know a thing or two about chicken but they don’t know shit about eggs. They couldn’t prepare a decent omelet to save their lives.

February 24th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines, (3:30pm)

I revisited the Central and Libertad markets* looking for unusual spices and cooking ingredients today…total ‘Chef Abroad’ experience. I can almost hear Michael Smith now: “While cooking at home for my family, I typically prepare my chicken ass using the more traditional methods, but, here in the Philippines they’ve taken cooking chicken ass to a whole new level.” I purchased some monggo beans, mini chili’s, anato powder and some weird fluorescent pink shit called ‘preque powder’ which is apparently used for marinating chorizo sausage. Who knew?

* Same vendors, same squalor, same questionable hygiene, same assaulting smells, one big fucking rat.

February 25th, Ferry Terminal, Bacolod, Philippines, (10:30am)

Sitting here in the Bacolod ferry terminal watching ‘Casualties of War’…a rather ominous movie to be playing in the terminal considering how it all turned out for the Vietnamese. Yup, nothing like a dramatic tale of wartime rape to set the mood for a delightful sea cruise.

February 25th, Ferry Terminal, Bacolod, Philippines, (10:30am)

The ferry to Iloilo just arrived and the ‘Good Ship Lollipop’ it is not…more like the U.S.S. Tetanus. I guess the good news is that it’s a former military vessel…of course, WWII was over 60 years ago; another bad omen. Likewise, a man just came aboard holding a rusty old engine which is, hopefully, not for this particular craft. And now that I’m looking for bad omens, I notice that there are no emergency exits, no open windows, no fresh air, and a life vest that wouldn’t float a guinea pig. Now that I think about it, this ferry is practically nothing more than a floating death trap and the onboard Elton John or the Sandra Bullock movie they’re currently showing is not making me feel any safer. I’d rather be cruising along the River Styx at the moment with some dog-faced boatman.

February 25th, Ferry Terminal, Bacolod, Philippines, (11:30am)

To say the water is rough and choppy would be like saying Captain Bligh had a slight moral problem. The advertisement on the back of the seat in front of me says “Crave Burgers”; umm, no…not really. What I really crave at the moment is Gravol.

The provided tips for surviving this ferry ride include: 1) Drink soft drinks to ease nausea, 2) sit in the center aisle, and 3) eat soda crackers…and by the looks of it, the old woman beside me isn’t taking any chances. She’s stuffing fistfuls of crackers, walnuts, piala cakes, and whatever else she has brought with her into her wrinkled maw as if her very life depended on it. Personally, I think the anti-sickness tips are only intended to merely boost the sales at the ferry snack bar. If you really want us to survive, how about unlocking the cabin door and give us a fighting chance?

February 25th, Iloilo, Philippines, (11:30am)

If I didn’t fit in very well in Manila or Bacolod, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. I feel like Michael Vick at a PETA Rally. But at least I’m alive…

February 25th, Bacolod Airport, Bacolod, Philippines, (6:45pm)

Power here at the airport has gone out about a half dozen times since I’ve been here and is doing nothing to boost my confidence about boarding the plane again back to Manila…particularly after my perilous voyage to Iloilo this morning. If the airport is experiencing power outages, surely, the flying toaster I’m about to board can’t be much more reliable. We’re likely to loose power and end up in a tailspin hurtling to earth at 800km/h if someone were simply to burp too loud, or bump and outlet with their ‘Pasalubong’ package. But everyone takes it in stride as power (or lack of) seems to be an everyday occurrence here. In my hotel room, I asked for a power converter (200v to 110v) and they brought me a unit the size of a turbine engine. It looked like something that might power a small city or a combine tractor or something…not something you’d use to recharge your cell phone or camera. I was afraid that if I plugged in my cell phone I’d end up with a miniature Philadelphia experiment-like situation.

February 25th, Bacolod Airport, Bacolod, Philippines, (7:00pm)

It would seem that fate has it in for me today. On scary ferry ride, airport power outages, and now our flight is delayed two hours due to a tire being 4” lower* (whatever that means). Either way, it means we’re going nowhere fast and her in the Philippines, that’s just the normal pace to life.

* Now, pardon my ignorance of avian mechanics but if a tire is low, don’t you just pump it up like you would a car? Call me crazy, but is it really necessary to fly in another one all the way from Manila?

February 25th, Bacolod Airport, Bacolod, Philippines, (7:30pm)

I’m still here waiting for an airplane tire, listening to the Dawson’s Creek theme play over the lobby PA system, swatting away flies and trying not to pass out from the shear stench of sweaty travelers. In short, I am in hell. Hell, I’m even considering having some of the weird purple cake (that may or may not have random pig parts in it). If things get any worse I’ll end up going mad with hunger and wind up on a boat to Mikonos wearing a pair of ass-less chaps. I was tempted to refresh and, therefore, revive myself in the airport bathroom but I was immediately scared off by an enormous pubes stuck to just about everything. I mean, seriously, how does pubic hair get stuck on a sink facet? What, is somebody giving their ball sack a thorough rinsing while squatting over the sink or something? There was enough random pubes in there to knit a sweater. I bet if you conducted DNA testing on certain pubes in this bathroom, some may even date back to early Philippine colonial times.

February 25th, Bacolod Airport, Bacolod, Philippines, (8:00pm)

I’m tired, hot, hungry and cranky. I’m more uncomfortable than Michael Moore in a Speedo. In about another 5 minutes, I’m going to unleash on one of the security guards with all the fury of a Biblical prophecy and beat them like a mixed race stepchild before I roast and eat them like a Lechon BBQ.

Dinner has been provided by the airlines and consisted of chicken and rice from the local Inasal Restaurant and not a moment too soon. Any longer and we were going to go all “Lord of the Flies” and turn on one another in a hunger-induced panic that would make a Haitian earthquake victim shake his head in disgust. I was afraid that someone might figure out that I had a bag of Pasalubong treats on my person and so my head would be the first on the stick.

February 25th, Flight to Manila, Bacolod Airport, Philippines, (8:45pm)

We’re finally on our way back to Aquino-Ninoy airport in Manila and leaving a mountain of Styrofoam take-out containers and chicken bones in our wake here at the airport lobby. I am not terribly excited to be on this plane, however, as given the kind of day I’m having already I’m half expecting that our plane will be struck by a falling meteorite once we get airborne.

February 27th, Tagaytay, Philippines, (11:00am)

Had an awesome Filipino lunch of tuna belly, hog jowls, mixed vegetables, some weird-looking egg soup and a fan-fucking-tastic pineapple shake at Leslie’s Restaurant, overlooking the volcanic island of Taal (the Philippines smallest active volcano).

Most amazing, however, was the house band that circulated among the tables of diners playing songs by the Eagles, Johnny Cash, Taylor Swift and most impressive, Lady Gaga. Now I’m no Lady Gaga fan but this particular acoustic version of ‘Pokerface’ will serve as one of the highlights of my trip. Filipino’s absolutely love their music but this experience sure beat listening to taxi drivers belt out Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’ at the top of their lungs during rush hour traffic on the way into the office.

If there is anything closer to heaven on this earth than Colette’s Pineapple (Buko) Pie, I have not experienced it. But then again, this should come as to no surprise since ANYTHING here that’s made with pineapple in it is bound to be de-fucking-licious, be it pie, shakes, yogurt, pizza, juice, tarts, or just straight up from the husk…it’s my comfort food. You could probably wrap a dog turd in a pineapple ring and I would at least consider it.

February 27th, Enchanted Kingdom, Santa Rosa, Philippines, (1:00pm)

Billed as the ‘Walt Disney World’ of the Philippines, this was more of a Labor Day carnival by North American standards. Disney-lite is more like it I guess. Instead of Mickey Mouse they have this strange wizard mascot named EK (very original indeed). Whatever the case, I didn’t find “enchantment” per se after entering so much as I did heat stroke and sweat stains. Similar to Disney, the park was divided into different themed areas including ‘Spaceport’, ‘Jungle Outpost’, ‘Midway Boardwalk’, ‘Brooklyn Place’, ‘Portobello’, ‘Victoria Park’ and ‘Boulderville’ (which was more like the Flintstones’ Bedrock except with these huge purple marshmallow like boulders laying around everywhere so that the place looked more like Barney’s litter box).

On my initial Google search prior to coming all I could find on the website was that the park features an 11-story rollercoaster, a huge Ferris Wheel, a water-ride (Jungle Log Jam), automated teller machines, first-aid station and storage lockers. Oh boy…storage lockers!! Thanks again, Google. It continued that the park was “for the young and the young at heart”…yeah, that, and coma patients maybe. I was determined to make the best of it, however, although I am skeptical given the standards of typical Filipino safety requirements; I may just be taking my life in my hands here. Perhaps I should have considered taking out life insurance before this trip. I was half expecting to see a sign outside the amusement park gates that read: “No Injures or Deaths to the Public in 23 Days”.

February 27th, Enchanted Kingdom, Santa Rosa, Philippines, (3:30pm)

As with most amusement parks, the central theme of most rides is to attach a basket, swing seat or carriage of some sort or a fixed spinning axis point and then revolve the shit out of it at high speeds until everyone pukes up their snow cones and caramel corn. After nearly napping through most of the rides I decided to get in line for the “Swan Lake” ride featuring swam-shaped paddle boats around a 3” deep lagoon. This proved to be about as frustrating as trying to wax the dolphin while wearing a catcher’s mitt. If Filipino’s are bad drivers on the roads, they sure-as-shit cannot operate or steer a paddle boat as swam after swam was stranded out in the lagoon unable to dock. I say they should release a few Great Whites into the lagoon in order to motivate directionally challenged park-goers to paddle their swans a little more vigorously back to the dock. “Paddle you little fuckers, paddle!”

As it turns out, the bumper cars are not much different than driving on the streets of Manila. I half expected them to be handing out valid driver licenses upon exiting the ride.

While standing in line for the Space Shuttle Max roller-coaster, I learned that this particular ride has had, shall we say, issues, in the past few months. Of course, I’m immediately imaging epic disasters with enormous body counts - definitely regretting not taking out that life insurance now.

February 27th, Jollibee, Santa Rosa, Philippines, (3:30pm)

Decided to take the plunge and, against better judgment, added to my list of life’s “Been There, Done That” by sampling the wares at Jollibee. Jollibee, for the record, is the only other fast food enterprise to ever outsell McDonalds in hamburgers anywhere in the world; which is not surprising considering that there seems to be, like, three on every corner. But I guess when your other options are beaks, feet and assholes, suddenly, Jollibee is much more inviting. I consider myself just lucky to have walked out alive or fall victim to any dino-sized strains of prehistoric food poisoning upon biting into my burger and fries.

February 28th, Ultrasport Complex, Manila, Philippines, (5:30am)

I was among approximately 30 runners congregating at the Ultrasport track first thing this morning before first light. Why? Because we’re fucking nuts, that’s why. I decided that I wanted to try and avoid the traffic, congestion and pollution (same as everybody I expect) in the city streets today by completing my scheduled 25k run (63 agonizing laps) on a track instead. In the beginning, it was me and those 30 people I mentioned. After an hour as the sun began to rise brining the heat of day with it there was about only a dozen or so people including myself. After 2 hours, it was only me left with 6 armed security guards watching my progress and sipping iced teas from the comforts of their shaded guard booth; talk about torture. This made me think: what are they so afraid of me stealing exactly that 6 guards are required to watch over me? By the time I left I heard them refer to me in hushed voices as “loco bastardo” which needs no translation in any language.

February 28th, Escopa Orphanage, Quezon City, Philippines, (1:30pm)

I had to actually dance today for the first time in years; since high school actually. Except it was no box trot this time but a child’s Elementary school dance instead, but it was no less difficult…maybe, worse. I had the same trepidation I had before my high school Prom. It would definitely not go over well here if I end up sending a small child to the hospital with crushed toes after a failed attempt at the “Deep Down In my Heart” dance with a clumsy, gargantuan Canuck.

March 4th, Renaissance Condos, Ortigas, Philippines, (4:00pm)

What the fuck doesn’t Manny Pacquiao endorse exactly? Shit, I’ve seen this guys’ mug on posters and billboards hawking everything from motorcycles to vitamin water. Most recently, he’s the new product endorser for Head & Shoulders shampoo. Great, it’s bad enough I have to see him everywhere as it is but now I also have to see zoomed in close-ups of his scalp?

March 5th, Renaissance Condos, Ortigas, Philippines, (3:250pm)

Learned a valuable lesson today: when you buy cheap pants from the local Tiendesitas Market be prepared to have your zipper fall off half through delivering a classroom presentation leaving standing in front of two dozen employees with your barn door open.

March 6th, Salcedo Village Market, Makati, Philippines, (11:00am)

I visited an awesome market today which served up everything from BBQ chicken and fish to health shakes to homemade pies to crispy pigeon. Now why anyone in their right mind would ever want to eat pigeon is beyond me; pigeons have all the social grace of a rat with wings. But then again, I am but a stranger in a strange land. I also had the opportunity to try “jack fruit”, which, aside from its rather perverse sounding name, is a deliciously curious fruit. What first grabs you is the absolute size. It’s about the size of a small beach ball with little spiky protrusions sticking out of it. It looks like some kind of dinosaur egg. The next thing that grabs you is its funky smell; pleasant it is not! In fact, it smells like a sack of rotten assholes; enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks. But taste-wise (providing you can get past the stench) it’s perfectly enjoyable.

March 6th, Greenhills, Ortigas, Philippines, (4:00pm)

Back at Greenhills and babysitting some visiting trainers as they run the gauntlet of vendor stalls. If I see another knock-off purse or pair of shoes again in my life, it will be too fucking soon. I’m likely to drop down into the fetal position and weep like a little Sally girl if I ever bump into someone sporting a Louis Vuitton bag. I wonder if it’s possible to develop a phobia of fashionable hand bags.

March 7th, United Wellness Run, Bonifacio Global City, Philippines (5:20am)

I ran my first Philippine half marathon today for a personal best of 2:04:37 over a very challenging uphill course in the 89-degree humidity. As it turns out, Filipino’s run very much like they drive – like blind orangutans. The most interesting part for me was the 5 minutes of group calisthenics’ for all 1000 or so racers at the starting line before beginning the race itself.

Quote of the Day: “Yes, we’re getting ready to begin the half marathon, the most grueling of all running races.” Clearly the logic and concept of a HALF marathon has totally escaped our announcer and somebody needs to fill him in on what a FULL marathon is.

March 7th, Renaissance Condos, Ortigas, Philippines, (11:00pm)

Discovered 4 cockroaches in my apartment today and I’m ready to break out the kerosene and box of matches. I can tolerate the little geckos, the lack of shading drapes, the sketchy Internet connection and the daily morning political rallies under outside my window in Tagalog which sound like Nazi Youth Rallies, but, cockroaches I cannot and will not put up with. It’s turning into Mutual of Omaha here at the Renaissance. Their way of dealing with it you ask? Why, spray a can of “Roach Away” under the couch and, presto, no more roaches. Yeah, right! But that’s just the Filipino way: affix a band-aid solution and turn a blind eye until everyone forgets about it. Next, I’ll probably find piranha swimming in my toilet.

March 8th, Gold’s Gym, Ortigas, Philippines, (9:30pm)

I enjoyed a cold ‘Vanilla Caramel Cappuccino’ this evening in the Gold’s Gym Café. Only in the Philippines can you purchase pies and dessert drinks in a body-building gym. I doubt that flavored drinks have any magical muscle building or health benefits to speak of and that ‘ol Arnie didn’t get all ripped on vanilla cappuccinos. What next? Free gin & tonics at AA meetings or a free mink coat cleaning with every purchase at the Body Shop?

March 8th, Gold’s Gym, Ortigas, Philippines, (10:00pm)

I was delivered the bad news today that all my utilities at the condo are scheduled to be turned off despite only getting the bill the other day (Monday). The conversation went something like this:

Superintendant: “They’re going to turn off your power”.
Me: “But I only got the bill this Monday.”
Superintendant: “Yes, it’s late.”
Me: “But I only got the bill this Monday.”
Superintendant: “Yes, I know. It’s late.”

Clearly I wasn’t going to win this one. Picture an ostrich sticking its head in the sand and you have that superintendant. I guess the Philippine Power & Utilities Commission doesn’t play around when it comes to prompt payment for their services.

March 9th, Texas Roadhouse, Ortigas, Philippines, (4:00pm)

So it happened…my power has been turned off. I am now officially without lights or air-conditioning, which, given the current weather lately, is the worst of the two evils. This is a little too traditional Philippine for me. Shit, I may as well just chuck it all away and joint the lepers and beggars living under the fly-way. So I am holed up in my little bastion of sanity here at the Texas Roadhouse finding solace in an iced tea and cheeseburger as I’m scared to go back to my apartment lest the giant roaches decide to rally together and carry me off into the night.

The staff have just gathered today in the room adjacent to me for some kind of prayer session; definitely not a good omen as a diner in the establishment if you ask me. Hopefully, they’re putting in a good word for me not get food poisoning as the result of some undercooked flat iron steak…or, better yet, for the chef to find the divine power and channel the true spirit of the Lord into cooking me the PERFECT steak dinner.

March 9th, Linden Suites, Ortigas, Philippines, (4:00pm)

I’m back at the Linden Suites in lieu of not having any power back at my fleabag condo unit. It would suck to wake and discover that I have been carted off as a sacrifice to the Queen of the dino-roaches or end up cooked through like a Christmas ham as the result of no air-conditioning.

March 11th, Aquino-Ninoy International Airport, Manila, Philippines, (4:45pm)

My trip has drawn to its close and I’m nearly back where it all started one month ago. I wish I had a cattle prod to deal with the throngs of people here all milling around the airport; there would be a wake of bodies in my path as I made my way to my flights boarding gate.

It’s always an adventure getting through Philippines Customs and Security. The first I have learned is NEVER over stay your welcome. In this case, overstaying by 9 days has set me back $3000 PHP…money grubbing opportunists they are. I have also learned that you NEVER forget about a small flip-knife stashed away in your carry-on bag. Not exactly the weapon a master terrorist would consider attempting a hijacking with, but concerning to Security guards nonetheless. What would they do, remove the screws on al the fold-down service trays in the airline seats? Or maybe use it to cut through their Salisbury steak a little more efficiently? The guards looked at me suspiciously, no doubt trying to figure out what my heinous master plan is and, hopefully, they decide not to go all Midnight Express on my ass. In that case, I hope my family remembers to send me boxes of Kraft Dinner with which to bargain for my safety among the other inmates.

I am now reminded of the huge Philippine-style billboard we passed in the tax on the way to the airport advertising men’s jockey shorts. More specifically: “Be Adventurous. Be You.” Little did I know what was in store for me only a short while later with the Airport Security. Of course, I’m not swinging joyfully from a zip-line in my underwear and, instead, sitting here in a Customs holding pen…but that’s still pretty “adventurous” to me!

March 11th, Flight CX902 to Hong Kong, Manila, Philippines, (7:30pm)

I am watching the onboard safety demonstration about what to do in the event of a crash landing being performed with ballet-like precision by the stewardesses. If I am to understand this correctly, I will be instructed to assume the crash position by an announcement of “Brace! Brace!” . Personally, I’m not confident that this is the most effective signal. I feel I’d be better motivated by an announcement like “HOLY FUCK, WE’RE GOING TO CRASH!”. That would definitely capture my full and undivided attention.

March 11th, Champions Sports Bar, Hong Kong International Airport, (11:30pm)

Apparently, there is something even more grave and menacing to Airport Security than a blunt flip-knife and that just happens to be a normal, everyday Allen Key. What the fuck? Am I going to disassemble the plane or something? I mean, only a complete moron would choose a flip-knife to hijack a plane with, right? So what kind of senseless retard would then put that flip-knife down and think to themselves, “Hey, you know what would strike fear into the hearts of men even worse than a dull flip-knife - an Allen Key!” Yes, perfect!” It’d be like trying to hold up a bank with a lawn dart. Even Helen Keller would show better sense in choosing weapons. If they were really concerned with security, they would have stopped me with this knapsack full of local snacks I am returning with which could threaten to unleash a wave of nausea and irritable bowel syndrome upon the unsuspecting passengers.

March 12th, Hong Kong International Airport, (12:00am)

I am slowly going mad waiting for my connecting flight. Never mind flip-knives and Allen Key’s, soon CNN will be airing live reports on the developing crisis at the Hong Kong International Airport where a crazed passenger goes berserk with a pair of chopsticks. Somebody better alert Anderson Cooper!

March 12th, Flight CX888 to Toronto, Hong Kong International, (12:00am)

Finally boarded my flight for home and if I have to take off my shoes or unpack my bags once more time there is going to be blood. I’ve already nearly round-housed another passenger when they dare scold me about the slow process of stowing away my luggage. “Mister, unless you want to spend the next 14 hours stuffed into this overhead luggage compartment, I suggest you take two steps back and zip your pie hole.”

March 12th, Vancouver International Airport, Vancouver, Canada, (12:00am)

I just can’t catch a break on this trip home as I was yanked aside, again, by airport security who this time decided that my jar of pineapple jam was too dangerous to board the flight with thanks to random swab test. FUCK! Luckily for the security guards, I’m just too tired to give a shit at this point. Take my flip-knife, take my Allen Key, take my pineapple jam, strip me naked and tie me to the tail of the airplane to be dragged behind the aircraft, whatever, just get me the fuck home.

Despite this unfortunate circumstance, being back in Canada is a relief to the system as it is just so different than being abroad. The airport is clean, fresh-smelling and inviting and the people working there are friendly and helpful. Compared to Hong Kong, it’s an apple and oranges type comparison. When I asked for direction to my gate, I was given detailed instructions including landmarks, tile color, distances in meters, shit, I was given everything but the longitude and latitude coordinates. I was waiting for the Info Desk person to break out the airport topographical charts and calculate not only my ETA but the amount of calories I would be expected to burn getting there. In a month’s time, I have become accustomed to figuring my way from dismissive gestures and waves. I was now just blown away at having received so much detail. It felt like my brain was imploding.

March 12th, Flight CX897 to Toronto, (12:00am)

Just mined a booger from my nose that resembled something you might extract from the remnants of a Hibachi.

Glad to be almost home!

The Taste of Evil

2010-11-04T10:36:00.000-07:00

(The following excerpt was taken from the, as of yet, unpublished journal entry: ‘The Philippine File - Part 3’) dated October 30th, 2010.

It has been said that Filipino’s never pass on two things: prayer and food. There is always time for prayer as there is always time for a quick snack or meal. Personally, and judging by the looks of some of their favorite menu options, I too would be drawn more frequently to get on all fours and beg for a safe outcome from my god before eating any of it as well.

Just saying…

On literally every corner there is something being grilled. Hell, you’re as likely to find charred frog nipples on a stick as you are to find a plate of BBQ-ed pork bits (Lechon). You just name the particular animal and random body part and I’m confident that you’ll find not only find it on a menu somewhere, but also a dedicated group of enthusiasts for it.

I learned this after a midnight excursion to Banchetto, an open-air food festival held in the City of Ortigas (Manila) every Friday night beginning at midnight. Once the clock strikes 12:00am, the entire street closes down and it transforms into a veritable smorgasbord of culinary mysteries and delights. I have never seen so many skewers of random raw organ meat in all my life; breast, butts, livers, faces, feet, ears, intestines - you name it – it was available.

Is it happened on this particular occasion, I was coerced into trying chicken “Isaw”, or chicken intestines. I’m not sure why I ever allowed myself to try this nasty-looking street meat in the first place, much less even consider trying it. Maybe it was the result of some macho instinct that kicked in at having been dared by giggling local females; maybe it’s a primal man thing that when meat is cooked over an open fire it needs to be consumed; or, maybe I just have a deep-rooted death wish, whatever, but I did it and it tasted exactly what you would expect a vessel whose primary purpose it to carry waste (ie. feces) to the outside world to taste like…like shit, of course.

And while I’m on the subject of shitty food, I also had the misfortune of eating at a “Racks Rib” joint in the ‘Pueblo de la Manila’ complex where, seriously, I had the worst meal of my life. Surely this is what evil tastes like. I’d rather eat a steeping bowl of dog vomit (which, it should be pointed out, was what the baked beans side dish could have been passed off as) than the order of Texas-style beef ribs that was placed in front of me. It is very doubtful to me that what I ate on this night in question was actually ribs at all…much less “beef” ribs…alley cay, maybe…rat, possibly…but beef?

Never!

The first sign that things were not exactly going to go well was when the food actually appeared in front of me in, exactly, 3 nanoseconds after my having ordered it. Hello? How is this possible? Do they have some amazing alien technology that enables them to scan my brain upon entering the restaurant and then have it prepared quicker than it takes me to order it? That suggests to me that my puny order of ribs had been well prepared hours in advance in anticipation of some hapless sucker like myself actually wandering in to eat. I’m sure Vietnam POW’s ate better than this slop.

In my opinion, the chef of Racks should be taken out into the streets at Banchetto and flogged by it’s patrons as a warning to others or, worse yet, subject to eat their own food.

Suddenly BBQ-ed chicken intestines doesn't sound bad, does it?

The Demon Lady Revisited

2010-09-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

I still remember the day vividly; the sound of her cloven hooves click-clacking across the production floor toward me; the smell of sulfur permeating the office place; the subtle crackle of flames and waves of intense heat as she made herself comfortable in the cubicle beside me; the She Devil had arrived.

I survived to tell the tale, of course, but I did loose my nice, quiet hidden spot at work that day and had to relocate somewhere else where the ‘Tai Kwon Ho’ couldn’t find or bother me*. Eventually I changed jobs, moved buildings and the years continued to roll on by until the memory of Demon Lady and all her hatred melted away into in the past like water passing under a unforgotten bridge…until yesterday, that is.

There she was – behind me in line at my favorite morning coffee bistro – waiting to get her next hate fix on – or so I imagined at the time. I noticed that the years had not been necessarily kind to the Devil Lady. More wrinkles had cropped up around from where the horns protruded from her forehead and her faced had twisted into a permanent state of displeasure – no doubt from her countless years of scowling and sneering. Her breathe still smelled like a sack of dead puppies and evil itself.

Not wanting to upset the She Beast and bring her wrath down on top of me like an out-of-control avalanche, I fixed my eyes forward and pretended to mind my own business. Would she remember me? Would she attempt contact? Would she ever make a voodoo doll later and proceed to mutilate it with pins and needles afterwards? I said a quiet prayer and shuffled forward in line until it was my time to order…

What happened next made my skin run cold and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and do the Macarena…she offered to pay for my coffee! To say I was taken a bit aback would be like saying the Swiss were a little off put by the Nazi invasion. But here she was reaching out not only just to communicate, but apparently, to make amends of sorts. Or was it all part of some elaborate ruse to steal and eat my soul? I remained weary, thanked her for her generous random act of kindness, snatched up my free coffee and retreated back to the office to barricade myself under my desk to wait out the approaching Armageddon.

After a few hours of non-activity – and by that, I mean tornadoes, plaques of locust, frogs falling from the sky, rivers turning to blood, that kind of thing – I began to actually believe that I was safe from her once again; I had faced the Queen Bitch head on and walked away unscathed…with a coffee no less.

Good for me!

But it wasn’t over yet – there she was again this morning – ahead of me in line this time.

“Rowh-oh, Shaggy!” What to do…what to do?

Do I pray for invisibility and pretend not to notice her in the hopes that she will disappear back into the bowels of Hell in a sudden puff of smoke again, or do I return yesterday’s favor and risk striking a deal with the devil? And if I did choose to buy her coffee, would this be the end of it or would this only initiate the regular exchange of caffeinated beverages between us in the future? Would it end there with the having to pay for each others coffees periodically or would it later evolve into my having to leave bowls of lamb entrails as a sacrifice to continue keeping her at bay?

I’m confused. What is the protocol exactly when dealing with demons? All I know is that my coffee shop doesn’t seem to be any crossroads and I have no interest in learning guitar. All I want is my coffee place back free from the walking undead.

Is that so much to ask?

So I compromised with myself and offered to purchase her a muffin instead. Hopefully that would be enough to appease the Demon Lady and not have to resort to smearing myself with goat blood and dancing naked around a bonfire by the light of a full moon.

But just in case:

“Oh father, who art in Heaven haloed be thy name…”

* Or hex me, put a spell on me, bewitch me, or any other type of evil, black magic hocus-pocus.

Mobile Madness

2010-09-16T09:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, seldom do I ever get too involved in the world of politics, but when one’s government officials does or says something so profoundly stupid, it automatically requires a swift and merciless rebuttal. More correctly, it deserves a Jurassic-sized slap upside the cranium, but as I am currently not in Ottawa, nor can afford the hefty price of gas to make the eight hour journey, this scathing blog rant will just have to suffice.

I’ve never been a purveyor for the virtues of mobile cell phones – ever. I once owned a Blackberry for work but found the distraction it created from other important things such as, oh, say, the rest of life for example, to be absolutely fucking annoying and I never regretted giving it back. I understand the importance of cell phones in today’s rapidly developing electronic and communication-enhanced society, but that doesn’t mean I also have to willingly go traipsing gayly into it; “rage, rage against the dying of the light…”

Long story short – I think cell phones are for pussies.

But be that as it may, schools in the GTA are currently engaged in a heated debate about whether or not their students should be allowed to utilize mobile phones while at school; more specifically – while in the classroom.

Currently, schools mostly operate with a strict cell phone policy that doesn’t allow their use in the school, either in the classroom or in the hallway and, too fucking right, if you ask me. If we’re going to allow them their precious cell phones, we may as well as go for broke and allow them to come to class armed as well.

What the hell?

But now, our illustrious Premier Dalton McGinty has suggested that we take a second at this cell ban and consider reinstating their use in the school system, or at least “be open to the idea of allowing students to use cell phones in class”.

Are you fucking kidding me? Why does a child ever need a cell phone in the first place, much less at school? Apart from using their remote Internet access available on any cheap-ass cell phone to Google the answer to their Geography final, what else would they ever need to use it for? It’s not like they need to make last minute reservations for their playground using their newest iPhone app are they? And heavens forbid should they ever be asked to go an hour without updating their Facebook status.

Shit, no - that’s important every day stuff!

The debate stemmed from concerns from parents about the cell phone ban because it curbed contact with their child throughout the day. Really? Like the 17-year-old Grade 12 student who recently needed to take an “important” call from his father during class one day. The emergency, you ask? Well, his father felt it was important for little Johnny to be informed about what they having for dinner - Beefaroni. God knows where that would have left Johnny had he missed that important message for sure!

Students themselves – obviously – as in favor of lifting the ban. Take Grade 12 student Monica Scanlan, for example. She says that she’s against the ban "for sure. It wouldn't be the end of the world to not use them in class, but it would be really hard to find my friends at lunch if we couldn't use them in the halls."

Hey, that’s great Monica. I mean, who gives a shit if you ever use them to learn in class or not, consider the serious social ramifications of not being able to find your friends quickly at lunchtime. Clearly, that’s not a world worth living in.
Parent Helga Teitsson said that she opposes an "outright ban, because as a parent, (she) rely(s) on being able to have access to (her) kids to remind them of the dentist or another appointment." She continues, "I think there are rules in place in the classroom, and I'm sure students push those rules," said the mother of two teens, "but I think parents today rely on cell phones to keep communication open with their kids." Really? Because I would have thought the top priority of sending her kids to school was to – you know - LEARN shit, and not be at her beckon call every minute of the day.

Maybe it’s just me, but Helga may just have to resort to an ancient tool known as a “calendar” (kal-uhn-der)* to remind her of her children’s after school volleyball games or dentist appointments, or whatever. She may even have to bite-the-bullet and hold herself e, as well as her child, accountable for being a responsible, capable individual and not have to needlessly rely on convenience gadgets to organize their day.

Call me old fashioned.

McGinty, however, argues that "telephones and BlackBerry’s and the like are conduits for information today, and one of the things we want our students to do is to be well-informed." Umm, again and, maybe it’s just me, but since we actually want our students to be “well-informed” we actually make them learn the shit and not just how to look up the crib notes on their Crackberry’s.

How would it look if a brain surgeon had to quickly Google instructions on anatomy because he didn’t really know the info, but rather, knew where to look it up? What sense does that make? “Hey, Suzy, don’t worry about actually learning basic math because you can always use the fancy ‘Tip Calculator ‘ feature on your new Motorola instead.”
That’s ludicrous!

In my opinion, we’re just teaching our children to be incapable, helpless little pussies. If a child should ever have to go an entire day without instant access to their precious Worldwide Web on their cells - like we did in my day – they would probably shrivel up and turn to dust and their brains would liquefy.

Children go to school learn – period. So what sense does it make to then include the one device that provides about a zillion distractions all at once so besides learning their multiplication tables they’re also watching the latest YouTube video, checking the latest Justin Bieber Twitter update, taking endless profile pictures, and texting their friends about the big rumble at the four-way stop after school.
What I really don’t get is that this stand against cell phone bans is being championed by the same asshole who also made it illegal for motorists to use cells, as well as cabinet ministers while in session. He’s the “Education Minister” for fuck sakes! So teach them to smart and resourceful, you moron; not spineless retards with the attention span of a coma patient.

Personally – I favor the Spartan way of educating. Forget the cell phone and other distracting toys of convenience; snatch the child away from the parents at an early age and drive them out into the unforgiving wilderness with nothing more than a pocket knife and a toothbrush and then ditch them. If they make it back to civilization alive, they live. If not….

That’s a real learning opportunity!

Does anyone else feel that "communication" is overrated anyway? "Good children are meant to be seen and not heard" is what my grandfather always used to say. We don't also need to encourage them to Tweet, text, Myspace, or Facebook every waking thought that goes through their undeveloped pea brains at every opportunity as well, do we? Shit no! My children will be lucky to talk by the time they're 18-years-old, much less paying for unlimited texting.

* A table or register with the days of each month and week in the year. Primarily used to record or register chronologically, as of appointments, work to be done, or cases to be tried in a court of law.

Discovering the Depths of Human Stupidity

2010-09-02T07:57:00.000-07:00

The world is less one idiot this morning.

The Discovery Channel headquarters in Montgomery, Maryland fell under siege yesterday when an anti-human environmental terrorist by the name of James Lee, a self-professed atheist and Spanish music aficionado took hostages and issued the world a crazy list of demands.

So I guess he doesn’t like ‘Ice Road Tuckers’ either, eh?

Lee, 43 years of age, believed that the channel wasn’t doing enough to save the planet and hence, made the decision to take matters into his own hands. He strapped explosives to his person and stormed the Discovery headquarters where he immediately took three hostages and asked that no one else leave the building.

Now, first of all, here is a clear indication of Lee’s overall sanity in my opinion. Who, when loaded down with enough explosives to make a crater the size of Rhode Island, simply “asks” people to stick around? “Excuse me, folks, would you mind sticking around so I can blow you up if they don’t meet my demands? Thank you ever so much.” No, you don’t ask do you; you demand! Stick around or your ass is grass – simple.

Regardless, the hostage battle continued for four hours after which the Maryland police officers shot him dead. None of the people held captive by Lee were hurt and all the 2000 people working in the building, including the 100 children in a daycare center at the building were evacuated safely before police started firing on him. The fact that Lee is completely Loony Tunes is probably not open to much debate, but what was he trying to accomplish exactly?

Apparently, Lee was under the belief that the Discovery Channel was not doing enough to save the planet. He said the network and its affiliates should stop "encouraging the birth of any more parasitic human infants." Instead, he said, it should air "programs encouraging human sterilization and infertility."

"NO MORE BABIES! Population growth is a real crisis," he wrote.

"I want Discovery Communications to broadcast on their channels to the world their new program lineup and I want proof they are doing so," he wrote. "I want the new shows started by asking the public for inventive solution ideas to save the planet and the remaining wildlife on it."

Sure, no problem bud. Get the world to stop screwing. Easy!

Discovery Health and TLC, both owned by Discovery Communications, spearheaded America's fascination with prodigious families.

TLC is perhaps the most recognizable in the large-family genre of reality television with its one-time flagship series "Jon & Kate Plus 8," which at its peak garnered 10 million viewers. Its spin-off, "Kate Plus 8," premiered with 3.4 million viewers in June.

TLC's other bountiful brood includes The Duggar family in "19 Kids and Counting." The network has also aired "Table for 12," and "Kids by the Dozen," which featured a number of families with 13 to 16 children each.

Now I hate Reality television as much as the next guy – but really? Let’s look at some of the other bat-shit demands made by Lee in his issued manifesto.

"The Discovery Channel and it's affiliate channels MUST have daily television programs at prime time slots based on Daniel Quinn's "My Ishmael" pages 207-212 where solutions to save the planet would be done in the same way as the Industrial Revolution was done, by people building on each other's inventive ideas. Focus must be given on how people can live WITHOUT giving birth to more filthy human children since those new additions continue pollution and are pollution. A game show format contest would be in order."

Clearly, James hasn’t been laid in a while. Maybe, in part, due to his apparent fascination with game shows. Forget David Suzuki, the world will be saved by Bob Barker and a ‘Showcase Showdown’ to end all ‘Showcase Showdown’s’. Whoever knew that game shows could be utilized as such an effective tool for learning and continued environmental education? Just imagine the possibilities: ‘Wheel of Pollution’, ‘Who Wants to be a Recycler?’, and ‘Are You Smarter than a Militant Environmentalist?’

Oh, but there’s more…

"All programs on Discovery Health-TLC must stop encouraging the birth of any more parasitic human infants and the false heroics behind those actions. In those programs' places, programs encouraging human sterilization and infertility must be pushed. All former pro-birth programs must now push in the direction of stopping human birth, not encouraging it."

Okay, you know, I can kind of get behind this just a wee bit. If I have to watch Kate and her brood of yard apes traipse through Disneyworld on another all-expense paid trip one more time I may consider strapping some C-4 to my body and going all 9/11 myself. These types of shows sponsor individuals who ultimately leave an enormous environmental footprint and, seemingly, don’t give a shit as long as the royalty checks keep rolling in. Stop having kids, you morons! Your vagina is not a clown car. However, who’s going to tune into a program about abstinence? Not exactly prime time viewing, is it?

"Saving the environment and the remaining species diversity of the planet is now your mindset. Nothing is more important than saving them. The lions, tigers, giraffes, elephants, froggies, turtles, apes, raccoons, beetles, ants, sharks, bears, and, of course, the squirrels."

Oh, of course! For the love of God – don’t forget the squirrels! Won’t somebody please think of the squirrels; some jokes just write themselves. Its obvious here that the guy is nuttier than squirrel shit.

But here is my absolute favorite:

"Also, war must be halted. Not because it's morally wrong, but because of the catastrophic environmental damage modern weapons cause to other creatures. FIND SOLUTIONS JUST LIKE THE BOOK SAYS! Humans are supposed to be inventive. INVENT, DAMN YOU!!"

You mean ‘inventive’, as in storming a television channel’s main office and taking hostages demanding we do something to help the squirrels and create more television game shows - that kind of ‘inventive’? You can really sense Lee’s desperation here: “INVENT, DAMN YOU!!” It’s a total ‘Planet of the Apes’ moment here, as you can just see him cursing the rest of us “damn dirty apes”. Poor bastard.

All in all - squirrels and game shows aside - Lee makes some pretty valid points in his argument. It’s just too bad that he continually refers to us (and therefore me by association) as “stupid, filthy parasitic humans”. I love you too, dumbass.

Sure we’re brainless, materialistic fuck bunnies, but at least we’re sane brainless, materialistic fuck bunnies. I think Lee’s greatest contribution to his own anti-human platform was in having his own ass gunned down and therefore erased from this mortal coil creating a healthier, more intelligent gene pool for the rest of us.

Rest in peace, dipshit.

So Long, Sea Monkeys!

2010-08-30T07:49:00.000-07:00

Shh.

Listen. Can you hear it?

“Ding-dong the shit is gone
Which old shit?
Mye neighbors shit
Ding-dong the neighbor’s shit is gone!”

The planets must have been in perfect alignment, or something just as significant has transpired in the cosmos to because the colony of sea-monkeys that live next door finally saw fit to clean up all the shit that has accumulated in their front yard for the past three years and move.

Seriously, it has been like living next to Samford & Son.

And when I say “clean”, I mean they dragged a broken ass rake across the what little remnants of a lawn they have left and collected it all in a few Glad bags and then dragged it to the curb.

Hey, it’s a start!

Within this huge pile of crap they mounded up on the street curb is only about a years worth of dog shit, tattered blankets and tarpaulins, scrap wood, segments of leaky garden hose, broken action figures, rusted bicycle frames, wobbly shopping carts, loose chicken wire, long since deflated basketballs, as well as every other piece of broken, useless shit your mind can conjure up.

The other neighbors were so absolutely ecstatic they were practically dancing in the street. Yep, there was a spontaneous dance celebration to rival the Sharks vs. the Jets. Hell, I can still here them singing their glorious Negro spirituals from the rooftops now.

These sea-monkeys you sea, have been the Bain of all our existences since the time they moved in three summers ago. I know now how Amanda and Hubert Peterson felt when the Addams family moved in next door, or when the Gruesome’s moved in besides the Flintstones…you get the idea. They are the oddest assortment of stinky, plaid-clad trailer trash that one could ever hope to avoid, much less, have live beside them. The smell alone that has permeated the neighborhood from their yard over the last few months has often been enough to warrant a NATO inspection. Nothing buried in the Iraqi desert would ever rival what you might have stumbled across in their yard only a few days ago – believe you me!

Lets look at this cast of carnival freaks for a moment shall we?

Firstly, there is the “head of the household”, Bob.

Bob wears the exact same t-shirt, stained jeans and backwards baseball cap covering up his lobotomy haircut every day; ever the fashion plate if I do say so. For whatever reason, Bob feels the intrinsic need to bring home anything that’s either not chained down or so badly broken that nobody else in his or her right fucking mind would ever want it. It’s like his yard has become a nest that he’s attempting to feather with scrap metal and broken appliances. And it’s not like he can even claim that he broke the stuff himself – it all came home that way and immediately occupied a position of honor on his front lawn to waste away into rust or mould.

I’ve seen clinical pack rats with more discretion than this moron. The guy is total crazypants!

Bob also has a strange habit of beginning tasks that could be considered as something of a “home renovation” nature except that he never finishes them and ultimately just abandons these projects in various stages of incompletion. My favorite is the dilapidated craptacular “dog house” that you could shoot a rifle at and have the bullet pass directly through without ever hitting anything. Now it just stands there like some twisted early contemporary 21st Century lawn ornament.

Bob Vila this guy is not!

Then there’s Hogzilla, his wife (I don’t know her name). Together they have the combined social grace of a box of hamsters.

She never leaves the house, but we know she’s always there based on the tremors we feel rippling through the earth each time she struggles off the couch to the kitchen and back to fetch herself another box of donuts. It’s true, she makes the mother in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’ seem like Farah Fawcett in the movie ’10’.

Every now and again, she will venture out on the front porch to gaze across the ‘ol ranch stead. Of course, she doesn’t venture very far since the porch would likely collapse from the sheer weight of her girth if she ever took more than 2 steps out on it. Instead, she prefers to open the front door, lob the day’s garbage out into the yard and then retire back inside to her Jerry Springer and industrial-sized bags of Oreos.

Last and least, is their devil spawn of a child – Brandon.

Brandon is the quintessential “Problem Child” and about as bright as a sack of rocks. In three years, I have never been known anything other than “Mr. Man”, despite several attempts of getting him to learn my name. Not that I ever have much to do with the kid communication-wise, but who likes being continually referred to as Mr. Man?

I know it’s terrible that I speak about a child in this manner, but after three years, any sympathy or patience I have had for him has been squashed out of existence. I avoid the kid now like I avoid trips to the dentist. In fact, the whole neighborhood seems to avoid him. Whenever the kid is outside, neighbors will avoid walking out to their cars or leave their porches for fear the kid will accost them with endless questions. Whenever one person makes the inevitable bid to leave their porch, the rest of us will seize the opportunity to commando roll out to their own cars and pull away while Brandon is occupied.

So it was a very happy day indeed when we watched the family wagon pull away for the last time. So much so, that it was a few hours before anyone ever officially recognized the fact; no doubt suspicious that it was all an elaborate ruse and they would return at any moment much to our disappointment.

But alas, it was true. The Sea Monkeys are at last gone.

No more random bits of broken garbage to marvel at in the mornings, so more stench of fetid body odor and rotting dog shit, no more screams of “Brandon, git yer lazy ass outside!” in the evenings, no more loud domestic disputes to rival the Nazi Party rallies in pre-war Germany, no more middle of the night visits by the local constabulary.

Nope, it’s absolutely blissful.

Hallelujah!

Reality Horseshit

2010-08-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

Intelligent television is dead. Not that it was ever really intelligent to begin with, mind you, but whatever semblance there was to semi-thoughtful broadcasting has now been completely erased and replaced with brain-numbing, soul-sucking Reality bullshit.

Suddenly, it seems that my life has become even less exciting and insignificant than I once thought. It’s as if everyone else's life is so much more interesting than mine. I used to watch television as an escape mechanism from my own skull-crushingly humdrum life and delve into more fantastical worlds of solving crimes, diagnosing life-threatening diseases or thwarting elaborate terrorist plots. Now I get to watch people bake cakes.

Whoopee shit.

Pioneers into this Reality TV frontier like Big Brother, Survivor and American Idol are becoming passé as we are now more intrigued by the more mundane shows like Antique Roadshow, Pawn Stars, or Miami Ink. It doesn’t matter if you design tattoos or maneuver heavy machinery across frozen inland lakes, the North American public wants to know about it apparently.

Am I the only person who doesn’t give a shit?

Lets’ review some of the current popular Reality show trends, shall we?

Ice Road Truckers / Ice Pilots

How did this ever make it to syndication in the first place? They drive trucks back and forth across Arctic wastelands; it’s cold and dangerous – I get it. I don’t need to watch three-fucking-seasons to get the gist. There’s never much wondering what the next episode is going to be about, is there? More ice, more cold, more trucks, more idiots driving across frozen lakes. You could be deaf and dumb and still be able to follow this plotline; same for its latest spin-off Ice Pilots. Yep – you guessed it – they fly over Arctic wastelands. And, yes, it’s still cold and dangerous. It’s enough to give you brain freeze.

Ace of Cakes

Here’s a show I’d love to nuke. They make cakes; most notably “they make it bigger, make it badder and make it awesome”. Booooooring! And when they’re not making their cakes they’re out Alpine skiing down remote Alaskan mountainsides or playing concerts for sell out audiences. Is the cake making business that lucrative? Shit, perhaps I should pack it all in and taking baking classes at my local college. Never mind making it bigger or badder; how about making it less gay?

Jon and Kate Plus 8

Here’s a show that really twists my Charlie Brown’s in a knot. Two parents exploiting their uber-fertility and children for fame and fortune. The bounds of their shamelessness must be as deep and loose as Kate’s hoo-hoo I suspect. The fact that they have lots of children, for some reason, also seems to entitle them to all expense paid vacation trips to Hawaii or Disneyland. And when they aren’t globe-trotting all over paradise with their rug rats in tow, we’re forced to watch them doing ordinary stuff like having breakfast, getting ready for school or defusing temper tantrums. Seriously? This is considered entertainment? If I wanted to watch family squabbles I’d go visit my own family, thank you very much.

Little People, Big World

Here’s a real gem of a show based on the lives of dwarf couple Matt and Amy Roloff, who are struggling to raise their four children on their 34-acre farm. Struggling? What struggling? The guy rides around his farm on a Gator all day long building stuff like fake canyons and pumpkin catapults – how is that struggling exactly? I work hard for a living and I don’t have any canyons or pumpkin catapults in my yard. And when he’s not building stuff he’s attending hockey practices with the Calgary Flames. Gone are the good ‘ol days I guess when dwarfs only achieved fame and fortune by dancing around in clown-like costumes and having pies shoved in their faces.

Practically anybody can have a Reality television show nowadays. Car salesmen, pawn shop owners, scrap metal dealers, hell, even garbage pickers. There doesn’t seem to be any limits whatsoever. In fact, the more boring it seems - the better. It’s not as if these people live terribly exciting lives either. But then again, who would watch a television show about working in a call center, or being a bank teller. Instead, we prefer to watch programs revolving around the things we’d rather be doing instead, no matter how dull or ordinary.

Even beyond these total wastes of satellite signals are other programs about interventions, hoarders, prison inmates, bail jumpers – you name it. No stone, no matter how uninteresting or unseemly, is left unturned. If you develop a case of genital herpes, you could quite possibly end up with your own Reality series – “Contagiously, Yours…”

Having said all this, there are some bastions of sanity in the Reality television world worth exploring that offer something in the way of entertainment.

Deadliest Warrior

This show is simply the tits. Ever wonder who would win in a fight between a Viking and a Samurai, or maybe between a Spartan and a Ninja? Well wonder no more - Deadliest Warrior to the rescue! “Experts” will wage faux combat on crash test dummies and hanging pig carcasses in an attempt to see who would wreck the most bloody havoc on the battlefield with their deadly arsenal. Yup – its blood splatter and gnarly carnage galore for this entire hour’s worth of programming, and all followed up with a computer generated mock battle between the two foes to determine, once and for all, “who is deadliest”. Classic television!

Jurassic Fight Club

Along the same vein as Deadliest Warrior is this Dino-nugget of a kick ass show that stages hypothetical battles between two colossus carnivorous prehistoric beasts. If that doesn’t give you wood then I don’t know what does.

Mantracker

Here’s a Canadian Reality show featuring a two-man team of ordinary rubes trying to elude two roughneck cowboys on horseback over an ever-changing landscape in order to reach a designated finish line undetected in 36 hours. It’s the Fugitive brought to life.

Tank Overhaul

They rebuild old tanks. Need I say more?

Iron Chef

For anyone who loves food – this show is a must. Based on the original Japanese broadcast, this North American remake pits a “veritable pantheon of culinary giants” against one another in something known as “Kitchen Stadium” to see who can make the most intricate and delicious fare out of some secret ingredient. It’s total food porn. Just because I can’t have any of it, doesn’t mean that I can’t beat off to it every now and again.

We'll Make Great Pets

2010-08-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder if we are alone in this crazy universe and if we’re not, then what do they know about us – if anything? Let’s suppose for a second that we are not alone and, not only are they superior to us, but they also know of our existence here on the big, blue planet. I wonder what they would make of us.

Perhaps they managed to pick up some of our random television signals traveling through deep space. How would they interpret these clues about or culture?

For instance, any inquisitive extra terrestrial would know that on planet Earth, it is always possible to park directly outside any building we are visiting. Voila! Vacant parking spots for everybody! We, the occupants of the 3rd rock from the sun are never faced with the ultimate inconvenience of having to park away from our desired destinations and therefore need to…*shudder*…walk. Somehow, miraculously, there will always be that vacant spot directly in front of any building we ever need to get to.

Pretty sweet, eh?

Now if I were the head of a super-intelligent alien race I might just consider this as a perfect excuse for invasion. No more need to ever find convenient parking spaces for our advanced alien crafts. Forget trying to find secluded places like woods and valleys where nobody will stumble upon us – fuck that! From now on I’m parking directly out front of my abductee’s homes. That’s definitely a bonus. Shit, who wouldn't want that luxury in life?

This slight misinterpretation might just be the total rationale behind man’s ultimate demise at the hands of marauding alien invaders from another planet. We’ll be erased from the celestial record forever for better parking opportunities.

Something else the aliens will assume about us is that we all love to dance. In fact, if any of us should ever decide we need to get our swing on, everyone around us will automatically know all the steps.

It’s a total Footloose throw-down 24/7!

What would the aliens make of this besides that we’re all a bunch of light-footed panty-waists? Maybe they find it a bit endearing, if not entertaining and decide that besides having our parking spaces, we’d also happen to make great pets. Before you know it, we’re all performing chorus lines on the bedroom floor of young three-headed Tomax from the planet Beta-12. Not a happy ending for mankind – how embarrassing.

Damn you, Kevin Bacon!

If the aliens do decide to invade us, then how would they go about preparing? For example, aliens who have studied our television signals carefully would inevitably learn that we humans have a particularly unique code of battle. It does not matter if we are heavily out-numbered in a fight involving martial arts, our enemies are expected to wait patiently to attack us one-by-one, killing time by dancing around in a threatening manner until we have knocked out their predecessor; that’s just how it’s done…end of story. We humans sure like things to be neat and orderly when it comes to combat. Would our alien invaders respect this battle code or see it as a weakness to exploit? Perhaps the aliens are practicing up right now on their hand-to-hand combat and threatening dance moves as I type.

The aliens must also assume then that we all prefer to fight bare-chested and make strange animal noises when we’re being attacked, so they probably expect fighting us will sound like beating a sack of howler monkeys.

Of course, aliens will also know that most of our home computers and laptops are capable of knocking out or overriding even the most technically advanced communications and advanced operating systems of any alien UFO. Yes, even our basic Dell laptop is more than just a simple porn box with the ability to hack into anything, so they would need to prepare for that little contingency before lining up to attack us…one by one, of course.

The aliens will also know how cool, calm and collective we all are under pressure. Even when involved in high speed car chases, hijackings, explosions, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and, yes, even when threatened by invading alien spacecraft, we humans will never panic – not ever. Not even when faced with a speeded up conveyor belt full of cupcakes - we will not waver, making us very formidable foes indeed.

Likewise, we’re insanely tough. Television will definitely have taught the aliens that whenever one of us is hit over the head with a bottle or blunt object, we never actually suffer any concussion or brain damage. Even when completely knocked out, we will eventually just wake up and be more than ready to exact our revenge*.

The aliens will no doubt also be looking at the overall effectiveness of our leaders in battle. When analysis the signals, they will conclude that all our police officers are mismatched and an only solve cases or are victorious only after they’ve been suspended from duty. In fact, Police Departments must place great emphasis on performing personality tests to ensure that all its elite detectives are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite; a very cunning strategy indeed. Likewise, our military leaders are all cigar-chomping cancer cases with a loose hold on authority at best.

The aliens probably think it’s a miracle we can mobilize at all. However, like the parking spaces, we all have the ability to locate a chainsaw whenever we have the need for one. The aliens will need to be prepared for that and have their big lasers ready and trained on us prior to any actual outbreaks of war.

After taking all this into consideration, I have come to the following obvious conclusion about our existence here in our solar system:

We’re fucked.

* Which sure comes in very hand when taking on multiple attackers one at a time…

Tequila Surmise

2010-08-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

So here’s a real corker in the news lately, Reality TV star Tila Tequila was attacked on stage when concert goers at the ‘Gathering of the Juggalos’ music festival in Hardin County, Il. Attackers hurled rocks, beer bottles, firecrackers and even shit at the stunned celebutant. Fucking awesome, isn’t it?

Concert-goers also, apparently, chased poor Tila back to her trailer where she barricaded herself inside with her two bodyguards as the trailer windows were smashed out and the trailer itself was rocked like a Haitian schoolhouse. Likewise, they literally chased her SUV that wisked her away to safety afterwards.

Why?

Because she decided to show them her boobs – that’s why. I wonder how Ms. Tequila feels knowing that her breasts have the ability to turn a crowd of thousands into a violent horde of rioters the likes of which hasn’t been witnessed since the Mongols rampaged across Eastern Europe. Must be pretty discouraging to say the least! Maybe we should be harboring the power of those enraging puppies for combat purposes, and displaying them to our troops before deploying them into war zones or search-and-destroy missions. Shit, our armed forced would be invincible!

But – first off – who is this Tila Tequila person exactly and what rock did she happen to crawl out from under? As it turns out, she’s a Singaporean-born singer, rapper, model and television personality. In other words, she’s just another product of our celebrity-obsessed culture; famous just for being famous. Besides her spreads in Stuff and Maxim magazines, she is most renowned for hosting Fuse TV, featuring the ever-popular ‘Pants-Off Dance-Off’.

Oh yeah, a real artist to be sure.

Ms. Tequila was quoted afterwards by saying: “I went onstage and immediately, before I even got on stage, dudes were throwing huge stone rocks in my face, beer bottles that slit my eye open, almost burnt my hair on fire because they threw fire crackers on stage, and they even took the shit out of the port-o-potty and threw shit and piss at me when I was onstage.”

Quotable isn’t she?

My only question is, if the fans were apparently throwing rocks (the stone kind – mind you), why would she even go onstage and try to perform; much less show them your tata’s? That’s like diving into a lit pool of gasoline and complaining of being burned. It is also noteworthy I think that her first song selection was ‘I Fucked the DJ’. Now, if that doesn’t encourage a throng of kooky clowns to riot – I don’t know what would.

A front row spectator had this to say about the incident at the time when the rocks and bottles began to fly: “She was taunting them. She didn’t know how to handle them. She didn’t understand the dynamic.”

What dynamic? We’re taking about a group of people who follow the band Insane Clown Posse for Pete sakes; not exactly a group of Rhodes scholars here. These fans often show up in clown make-up and refer to themselves as Juggalos and Juggalettes. To say the least, they are known to be a little rowdy. Hell, they probably came to the concert armed with pockets full of feces already – just in case. That’s probably the official standard operating Insane Clown Posse fan policy.

So what does one do when they are met with disapproving angry fans? Why show them your tits of course. Good show, Tila! Way to fall back on the hallmark of your success - the ‘ol moneymakers – too bad they had the opposite effect, huh? Maybe, had you been at Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale, or the Playboy Mansion or something, eh? Things might have been different.

What the hell was she doing at a festival organized for and around a band known as the ‘Insane Clown Posse’? What the hell was she thinking? Did she intend to lead the crowd of riled up clown freaks in a few spirited rounds of Kumbaya, maybe a line dance or two, before baring her breasts and retiring back to her trailer for the evening? Seriously!

So how is Ms. Tequila responding to the incident? Why, how every other well-grounded, red-blooded intelligent being would, of course – with an angry Tweet.

The following message was posted to Twitter the next day:

"Thank you everyone for your support. The people at Juggalos behavior was disgusting and I am filing a suit against Them now. Thanks 4 ur luv. Pretty soon the owners who run the Juggalos will be bankrupt. My attorney Alan is already on it. This is disgusting behavior from men. But to all of my fans, I appreciate your outpour of love and support! Xoxo"

Suing 2000 fans for flinging poo? Good luck with that. I guess Alan really has his work cut out for him, eh?

Personally, if I went to a festival to watch rowdy punk-rap bands and a pint-sized Reality Princess walked out just for appearance sake, I might be brought to hurl fistfuls of shit as well. I say, sue your agent dumbass.

She should be counting her lucky stars that she wasn’t also stoned to death.

Modeling Bad Behavior

2010-08-10T12:38:00.000-07:00

Don’t you just love to hate famous celebrities? I do. And I don’t mean the seemingly nice and normal ones; you know, the ones who get all passionate about their third world orphan babies, political prisoners or earthquake victims or something semi-sensible, but those kooky holier-than-thou celebrities who seem to feel as if the sun rises and sets on their own ass. I mean those ones that if something tragic should ever happen to remove them from this mortal coil; you wouldn’t give two shits, like, Carrot Top or, say, Naomi Campbell.

I say Naomi Campbell because she has happened to make recent news headlines recently when she was requested to testify in the on-going trial against former Liberian leader, Charles Taylor.

I know, I know…”huh?” What could these two dipshits possibly have in connection with one another? But it’s all true.

Last week, supermodel Campbell was summoned as a possible character witness to support prosecutors allegations that Taylor received so-called “blood diamonds” from rebels in Sierra Leone and then used them to buy weapons during his 1997 trip to South Africa. Along with these charges, Taylor is also accused with 11 counts of instigating murder, rape, mutilation, sexual slavery and the conscription of child soldiers during wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone in which more than 250,000 people were killed.

Of course, Taylor denies all charges - duh. So how does this involve the 40-year old supermodel and celebrity bitch extraordinaire?

Well, it has claimed that Taylor offered Campbell a few of these “blood diamonds” as a gift after meeting her and Nelson Mandella at a charity dinner back in 1997. Or, rather, the diamonds were passed to Campbell by two unidentified men who came to her bedroom in the middle of the night.

Weird?

Well, apparently not if you’re the likes of Naomi Campbell. Campbell testified that she was “sleeping and had a knock at the door that woke (me) up. Two men were there and they gave (me) a pouch and said: ‘A gift for you’”, she told UN Special Court for Sierra Leone.

“I went back to bed. I looked into the pouch the next morning,” the model said. “I saw a few stones, they were very small dirty looking stones”, she continued.

Really?

Two strange men bring you a mysterious pouch with God knows what in it and you can’t be bothered to open it until the next morning? Am I the only one not buying this load of horseshit?

Furthermore, Campbell claimed that “I’m used to seeing diamonds shiny in a box…if someone had not said they were diamonds, I would not have known they were diamonds.”

Again, my bullshit meter is reading off the charts. I’m pretty certain that if supermodels are able to recognize anything in this life, it’s anything with a calorie count in the double digits and diamonds…no matter what kind of rough condition they happen to be in. I’m sure in this case, Naomi’s inner diamond meter probably lit up like a Roman Candle on ‘Cinco de Mayo’.

And really, how rough is life when you only get to see shiny diamonds in fancy boxes? Poor woman. I’m all choked up with sadness.

Campbell initially refused to testify and told judges she feared for her family’s safety after reading on the Internet about Taylor’s alleged involvement in mass killings. She has no problem chill-axing with the guy at International benefit events, or accepting midnight presents from the guy…but testify after reading something on the Internet? Hell no!

Citing these reasons for security, Campbell won a court order barring journalists from photographing or filming her arrival and departure from the courthouse. Yeah, right, because Taylor must also rely on his Internet Google searches to locate and identify his targets. Makes perfect sense, right?

So how does an International supermodel celebrity protect her personal security while the jury deliberates over her crock-of-shit testimony? Why, incognito on a luxury yaught in Sardinia with Leonardo Di Caprio, Kevin Spacey, Janet Jackson and famous diamond merchant Fawaz Gruosi at the famous Billionaires Club in Porto Cervo.

Sure, why not? Taylor will never think to look for her there, right?

Furthermore, Campbell was quoted in court as saying “I don’t want to be here. I was made to be here… This is a terrible inconvenience to me. Obviously, I just want to get this over with and get on with my life.”
Too fucking right! We all know how sucky it must be to make hasty first class vacation trips to the Netherlands. Geez! Will the madness never end?

Her multiple secretaries and personal assistants just aren’t going to abuse themselves ya know; neither are any of the paparazzi reporters going to insult and punch themselves, now are they? In fact, there hasn’t been a single telephone beating the entire time Campbell was testifying at The Hague. Won’t somebody please think of the poor neglected secretaries?

My but how this poor woman suffers! Somebody should just save her all this pain and suffering and just stick a cheese knife in her rib cage. I don’t know how she ever manages to deal with it all.

Suck On This!

2010-07-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

Call me old fashioned – but vampires are not supposed to be sexy. They are the walking undead for Christ sakes! They live in coffins, are impeccably dressed in aristocratic threads, speak in foreign accents, drink blood and have breath that smells like a sack of assholes. This is the type of old school vampire that was popularized by famous vamps as Bela Lugosi, Vincent Price and the like.

In other words they were deadly and to be avoided.

Vampires have always been a popular icon in local folklore it’s true, as history has a long fascination with the vampire. For example, in ancient times, the ‘callicantzaros,’ a Greek vampire, had long fingernails and would attack only around Christmastime, using its long nails to tear people to pieces. The Sumerians had similar stories about vampire-like creatures and blood-sucking demons. And, shit, Transylvania itself has practically made itself the vampire capital of the world. Underlying all these stories is the belief that vampire-like creatures are soulless, and in some cases, mindless killers.

And of course, who can forget the grim profiles of some of histories most vicious, heinous carnivores such as Vlad the Impaler (the real life Dracula), Countess Elisabeth Bathory, Rasputin, the Highgate Vampire, or Arnaud Paole. These were not people you were exactly interested in meeting or, heavens forbid, establishing any relationship with. If you saw them coming, you ran and hid – not ask for an autograph. They were complete and utter psycho wing nuts with an endless appetite for human blood and wrecking havoc.

The vampire usually is seen as a metaphor for the dark side of humans: our greed, lust, obsession, predatory natures, desire for eternal life, the tragic quality of being boxed in by fate. On another level, the vampire has the qualities of the dark rebel, the outcast, the ultimate opponent of the established order and the daylight world. Trapped in a half- world between the living and the dead, the vampire carries the tragic qualities of an outsider who does not fit in, a situation that many people can identify with.

But lately, we’ve been identifying just a little too much I’d say.

To say that ‘vampires are trendy’ is the understatement of the year. Fast forward to the early 90’s and we encounter a very different type of vampire. Now they market energy drinks (‘Vamp: for when the sun goes down’), record top selling pop albums, operate entire Facebook fans pages, Tweet on their iPhones, and - while in Muppet form – even teach our children to count to five. Shit, lately, your average vampire has become pretty, fashionably hip, technologically savvy, and struggles with teen angst. Vampires have turned into more of a moody, Gap-shopping douche bag if you ask me. They are now more warm and fuzzy and deal with all the typical struggles of adolescence. They are now more likely to be contemplating their deep rooted issues of acceptance and belonging than they are of stalking and manipulating human prey.

Bram Stoker’s Dracula was replaced with the cast from Twilight.

Personally, I blame the writers of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’. The character of Angel from the this show emerges as a template of the contemporary vampire. As a once super-bad vampire, Angel spent the preceding decades spreading death, hatred and destruction across the world. But when the gypsy curse forced his human soul to return to his vampire body, Angel regains his conscience and spends most the Buffy series attempting to atone for his many sins. With the emergence of this new Emo-type vampire, our beloved monster seems have become truly defanged, appearing like a victim destined to do good. In other words, he became a pussy as far as vampires go.

Perhaps, we could add the vampires Edward Cullen (of the ‘Twilight’ series) and Mick St. John (of ‘Moonlight’) to this category? We should ask ourselves this question: are these reformed characters really vampires – the predatory creatures who have epitomized depravity, perverse sexuality and moral corruption for more than two millennia – the creatures we have come to fear, loath and love?

I say abso-fucking-lutely not!

This has prompted me then to create this list of rules for vampires in order to be clear about what it takes to be the old school type of vampire that we all used to recognize and fear.

1) Vampires are not romantic or sexy.

Sure, they are sensuous beasts. Feeding on the blood of wanton virgins in the middle of the night n’ all, but they certainly did not “date” as it were. They do not venture out in last season’s corduroy jacket and they don’t give a flying bat shit about what you are doing Friday night unless you’re planning a midnight strolls through the graveyard.

2) Vampires are not warm and fuzzy.

When Dracula spoke about children, he was referring to wolves and their howls. "Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make." He is not a warm and cuddly vampire with paternal instincts and dressed in a woolly Cosby sweater. He is syrupy in his charm and poise perhaps, but he full well knows the destruction that lies ahead.

3) Vampires do not have feelings.

We now have new vampires; ones with feelings. Edward Cullin in ‘Twilight’; he's moody and darkly brooding but he lives a respectable life with his vampire family. He feels bad about sucking the life out of humans, so he channels his vampirism to animal flesh. He even jokes, "We think of ourselves as vegetarians." Horseshit! Vampires are cold, calculating killing machines. The last thing any real vampire would do is spill their guts to a shrink about how difficult it is to be a vampire.

4) Vampires do not fight werewolves.

Forget what you saw in ‘Underground’. Vampires and werewolves do not, nor never had, any ongoing battles or conflicts. Besides, we all know that werewolves don’t really exist.

5) Vampires are not mere outcasts seeking our acceptance.

The vampires in ‘True Blood’, thanks to a Japanese scientist's invention of synthetic blood; have progressed from legendary monsters to fellow citizens overnight. Humans are no longer on the menu. There is no such thing as a friendly vegan vampire. You either drink the blood, or you do not drink the blood. And if you do not drink the blood you are not a vampire – period. These new models of morally conscious vampires who condemn and refuse human blood are pussies and not worthy of their implied “Vampdom”. Real vampires do not give a shit about you or what you think of them and want only one thing – your blood.

Personality Type: Jackass

2010-07-22T08:58:00.000-07:00

I just completed a personality survey at work this afternoon in an effort to provide my current boss with some further insight into what kind of employee I am exactly. This way, he will supposedly have a leg up on what it takes to successfully develop me professionally – or some other bullshit like that. Personally, I think this is just another concentrated effort by Corporate America to find out in advance which one of us employees are the loaded weapons ready to go off in the cafeteria with a deer rifle early one Monday morning.

Now I know what you’re saying, “But Terry is the TITS! Why should he have to take a personality test? He’s the man!” And I agree as - typically – I hate this survey nonsense too. But then again, who doesn’t love filling out the odd meaningless survey about themselves? It’s just one of those secret guilty pleasures we all indulge in once in a while like Cheese Whiz, Infomercials, or Michael Bolton albums .

It’s not often I ever find any real substance in these surveys but, every now and again, they seem to hit the nail right on the head and prophecy something so profoundly specific that you have to wonder if witchcraft is involved. Maybe it somehow determined in its formularized summary analysis of you; something no one else could have known. Something, like, the fact that you are apt to trim your nose hair in public, or that you like to be spanked by a midget dressed in a French maids outfit with a slice Montreal smoked meat – whatever. It’s like it just knows! And this work personality survey this afternoon was very similar in that it just seemed to define my very character to the letter.

It was almost creepy.

It was evident from the get go that this survey was different. The questions it poised were vastly different and more introspective than of the other personality surveys I’ve taken in the past. Some of the questions were so deep and detailed that my head was absolutely swimming after dwelling and contemplating them for too long. They seemed as if I should be required to have a degree in Shinto philosophy or a black belt in Post-Modern Psychology, or something, just to be able to even answer the damn questions.

You always value justice over mercy (yes/no)
You often think about humankind and its destiny (yes/no)
You often contemplate about the complexity of life (yes/no)
You are more interested in a general idea than in the details of its realization (yes/no)

Really? I don’t know exactly. But let me meditate on it over coffee and muffins and I’ll get back to before lunch.

I’m as useless as a bucket or armpits at answering these types of questions. I’m not one to really explore my soft and spongy emotional side very often, so throwing these types of self-exploration questions at me first thing in the morning is like expecting to teach String Theory to a mackerel. The most I spend thinking about destiny or the future is while watching the advertisements for the new Fall television line up.

Some questions were just downright weird:

You feel involved when watching TV soaps (yes/no)

Yeah, there’s something every man wants to admit to. Oh sure, I tear up at just the mere opening notes to ‘The Young & the Restless’. What does this have to do with my professional maturity exactly? How does this serve to accurately pigeonhole me into a particular classification of functional society? Why not just ask me if I find Judge Judy hot for all the relevance it provides?

Some questions were obviously intended to gauge my emotional stability.

You trust reason rather than feelings (yes/no)
Your actions are frequently influenced by emotions (yes/no)
You frequently and easily express your feelings and emotions (yes/no)

No guy like talking about his feelings – or, at least, no real man anyway. I get flooded with paranoia about what the answers to these emotionally based questions will tell about me. The last thing that any man wants to hear is that he is a total SpongeBob Gaypants. I purposely refuse to answer these questions as they tend to make me upset enough that I need to take an extra break to go have a quick cry in the office ‘Quiet Room’. That might just be the final push I need to go register for a gun license.

Some questions are just outright impossible to answer outright.

It's difficult to get you excited (yes/no)

Well, that’s totally subjective isn’t it? It depends on what we’re talking about here right? I may sleep through an entire parade of dancing semi-nude calendar girls outside my window, but then work my way through an entire box of breakfast cereal just to get to the plastic toy at the bottom. Who knows? It entirely depends on the day. You may as well as me:

What is the sound of one hand clapping? (yes/no)

So what were the results of this survey that was so bang on? Apparently, I am a classic “Provider”. Who knew?

“Providers take it upon themselves to insure the health and welfare of those in their care, but they are also the most sociable of all the Guardians, and thus are the great nurturers of social institutions such as schools, churches, social clubs, and civic groups.”

Great. The same could be said about John Wayne Gacy.

“Providers are very likely more than ten percent of the population and this is fortunate for the rest of us, because friendly social service is a key to their nature. Wherever they go, Providers happily give their time and energy to make sure that the needs of others are met, and that social functions are a success.”

See how fucking awesome I am? I’m a regular Mother Theresa.

“Highly cooperative themselves, Providers are skilled in maintaining teamwork among their helpers, and are also tireless in their attention to the details of furnishing goods and services. They make excellent chairpersons in charge of dances, banquets, class reunions, charity fund-raisers, and the like.”

You mean I missed my big chance to make a lucrative career of proctoring school dances? Well, there’s a total missed opportunity. If as long as they mean “skilled in maintaining teamwork” as, carrying a big stick and not being afraid to use it dole out the odd random beat down – then I agree.

“They are without peer as masters of ceremonies, able to speak publicly with ease and confidence. And they are outstanding hosts or hostesses, knowing everyone by name, and seemingly aware of what everyone's been doing. Providers love to entertain, and are always concerned about the needs of their guests, wanting to make sure that all are involved and provided for.”

Okay, as much as I appreciate knowing this, it also just made me throw up in my mouth a little.

“Providers are extremely sensitive to the feelings of others, which makes them perhaps the most sympathetic of all the types, but which also leaves them somewhat self-conscious, that is, highly sensitive to what others think of them. ”

Sensitive? Sympathetic? Self-conscious? Caring what others think? Clearly the makers of this online survey were not familiar with any of the work of yours truly. But I guess no survey is ever completely 100% accurate, is it?

“Friendly, outgoing, neighborly - in a word, Providers are gregarious, so much so that they can become restless when isolated from people. They love to talk with others, and will often strike up a conversation with strangers and chat pleasantly about any topic that comes to mind.”

Oh yeah, I’m totally a people person.

And lastly, “Providers are loving and affectionate and need to be loved in return.”

Puke.

Interestingly enough, among the celebrity Providers listed were Ray Kroc, Dave Thomas and J.C. Penney, Desi Arnaz, Elvis Stojko, Sally Field, Leonard "Bones" McCoy, and Donald Duck.

I don’t know how to take this exactly. What does it say when two fast moguls, a schizophrenic actress, a gay figure skater and a dull-witted cartoon foul with anger management issues are listed as those with strong similarities to you? And the doctor on Star Trek…Bones…really?

In retrospect, I’m not sure how much I really identify myself with this survey. As flattering as it is all intended to be, maybe – sometimes – a knight in shining armor just turns out to be just another retard in tin foil.

Survey here.

"Welcome to Canada!"

2010-07-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

(The following post has been taken largely from the article “Woman claims she was strip-searched, mocked by border agents”, appearing in the St. Catharines Standard, July 20th, 2012. In actuality, I find this situation to be completely deplorable, embarrassing, and totally disgraceful…but, hey, I gotta be me at the end of the day)

While relaxing yesterday evening with some cocktails down by the pool, I was delighted to discover an article in my local newspaper that absolutely warmed the cockles of this cold, empty shell that is my heart. Yes, life was certainly good at Chez Tigerrabbit yesterday.

I was instantly sucked in when I first read the headline “Woman claims she was strip-searched, mocked by border agents”, and I figured it had something to do with another example of paranoid, power hungry Americans wreaking vengeance on us poor, innocent Canadians; as we all know how the Americans have such a hate on for all things Canuck anyway. First it’s the baby seal outcry controversy, then the whole Great Goose Holocaust only a few days ago. It’s like every time we turn around the Americans are taking an opportunity to hassle us. We’re like their ugly, retarded step-sister or something.

But no more! I was delighted to learn that the actual perpetrator’s of said “strip-search and mockery” was actually the Canadian border customs officers. And to this, I say: BRAV-fucking-O! It’s high time we stood our ground and gave a little what for in return. We do “Stand on guard for thee”, after all, right?

As it turns out, Shileen Flynn, 29, had already “missed one flight and lost her luggage when she says she found herself in a room at the Vancouver airport, naked and squatting, while two crude border agents strip-searched her”. Bear in mind that this was only days after a suspected al-Quida member tried to ignite an explosive device aboard a Detroit-bound flight in December of 2009. Flynn was on her way to Palma de Mallorca, Spain from Seattle to begin her new job as a public relations officer.

Whatever, she was “a day behind schedule, having missed her flight from the U.S. the night before, and had to catch the next plane to Germany to she could catch a flight to Spain to start work the next morning. And somewhere along the way, the airline lost her luggage”. Yeah, yeah, whatever sweetheart. Sounds like a likely story for a potential terrorist threat if you ask me.

So, anyway, as she was talking to her mom on a pay phone she is approached by a Canada Border Services Agency (CBSA) officer who asks to speak with her. No doubt to question her about whom she was just making plans to eradicate world peace with over the phone. Hey, we may be good natured and kind, but we’re definitely not going to fall for that whole “I’m talking to my mother” routine.

The officer proceeds to ask Flynn where she was travelling and why she was using a pay phone. Flynn was then asked to remove her sunglasses so that the officer could, no doubt, see the whites of her eyes. Now, you don’t have to sit through a zillion Clint Eastwood movies to know that that’s, like, the cardinal rule of homeland security, right?

To this, Flynn flagrantly defied this instruction by pushing her sunglasses back down her nose again after flipping the officer a defiant glance. Strike two, bitch. The officer became aggressive and proceeded to search her carry-on luggage. No luggage, pay phone, sunglasses…all that’s missing from this profile is a bandolier of plastic explosive and a one way ticket to Mecca.

So after more questions and a royal sniffing over by the customs search dog, Flynn was detained and strip-searched by two more female CBSA officers. Flynn was made to “bend over a table, open her legs and cough.” Now we’re talking. Who knows what Flynn might have been concealing or attempting to smuggle into our peaceful home and native land. Weapons of Mass Destruction, secret microfilm, national security secrets, or just leftover ping pong balls - who knows for sure? Better safe than sorry.

In fact, CBSA issued an explanation after its initial investigation into the incident that effectively said: “that a strip search can be conducted if an officer has reasonable grounds to suspect that a person has secreted contraband on or about their body, as long as a senior officer approves the search, and the suspect is informed of their rights”. Too fucking right! It’s not like this type of thing is unthinkable or has never happened in the States or anything, is it? Shit, if this had occurred in the states there would be pictures circulating around now of Flynn strapped into a saddle and nipple clips while being ridden around by a customs officer giving the ‘thumbs up’ sign a la Gitmo.

Maybe Flynn should just consider herself lucky.

The Flynn’s are still pursuing the incident and demanding further investigations be made into the whole debacle. Personally, I think this is just a simple case of giving a little harassment back to our over-bearing, meddling, goose-killing neighbors to the south. How does it feel, you Yankee bitches?

So in response to this whole event I will only further say: “AND STAY OUT!”

"It's wiiiiiiiitchcraft...."

2010-07-20T06:55:00.000-07:00

According to a recent story released by CNN today, child witchcraft allegations are significantly increasing in parts of Africa, as thousands of children have been attacked, beaten or killed.

Witches? Really? I thought witchcraft went out with the Eagles.

Anyway, not only are children being physically assaulted, but they face significant emotional and psychological trauma from the exclusion and hatred that comes with being branded as a witch by one’s own family or community. Well, duh! That kind of goes without saying, doesn’t it?

The accused children are mostly boys, ages 8 to 14 years of age with orphans, street children, albinos, and disabled – particularly, those suffering from autism or Down’s syndrome - as the most at risk, said the United Nations Children's Fund in its report. Oh great, so it’s not bad enough that you’re an albino orphan living on the streets of poorest, darkest Africa but now you also have to content with allegations of being a witch? Beautiful! And here I thought not being voted Prom King was the end of the world as I knew it.

Imagine those additions to the popular Sinatra tune:

“Those emaciated fingers through my bleached blonde hair
That blank come hither stare
That strips my common sense bare
It’s witchcraft”

To make matters worse, the public have taken to performing exorcisms on these unfortunate children in an effort to “cleanse” them of their witchery; often enlisting the aid of the community preacher or religious leader. Such exorcisms include the pouring petrol into the children's eyes or ears, and forcing them to swallow various substances. These exorcisms can cost up to USD$250. Hell, I’m in the wrong business! Two hundred and fifty smackers for the easy 20 minute job of pouring gasoline into the face of a hungry child?

Can you say “Ka-ching?!” Easy money!

It just sounds like something I might expect from any fraternity hazing stunt or something. Booze – petrol; potatoe – potato.

A report from UNICEF identifies four categories of child witchcraft. The first is children accused of acts of witchcraft. The second is children who have been killed or exorcized because their bodies have been inhabited by demons. The third involves albino children, and the fourth concerns babies who have been born with complications or whose labors were abnormal or difficult.

As I see it, this is just another example of the never-ending depths of human stupidity. Which, by the way, brings up another valid question of where did all the money go exactly that we channeled into Africa for education? Clearly, it has hasn’t reached its intended target has it? Or are accredited African universities now offering “Witchcraft 101” courses as part of their undergraduate curricula’s?

So where’s Bob Geldof now?

The countries worst affected by this trend are Angola, Benin, Cameroon, Central African Republic (CAR), Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Nigeria. In many parts of these countries, albino children are killed so that their body parts may be harvested. I wonder how much the going rate is for Albino soufflé anyway.

“Mmm, albino soufflé …”

Many cultures practicing indigenous religions believe that the hair, skin, eyes and limbs of albino children have magical powers. In other words, witchcraft is a lucrative industry in its own right ... making putting an end to it and protecting children from their own communities difficult. Just the other day, my mother was asking for a nice African albino child pendant for her charm bracelet for Christmas.

Anyhoo, the tension of poverty across most of African communities has delivered the opportunity for this terrible phenomenon of abuse, murder, and exploitation of thousands of children and their mostly illiterate parents or guardians; in the name of Christianity. So, let me get this straight: they’re poor so they’re blaming it on the disabled children? What Christian sense does that make? If you’re going to blame or accuse anyone of witchcraft, I’d recommend blaming those for whom this doesn’t seem to be a problem – namely the rich and the beautiful. To me, they’d be the more likely candidate for making deals with the devil. I know if I was ever going to take up witchcraft, I probably put it to better use than making me homeless and disfigured. Shit, I’d suddenly be transformed into Brad Pitt and driving around in a gold plated limousine…but that’s just me I guess.

My point is; I’d have higher aspirations than maintaining my fair complexion.

The Lohan Lowdown

2010-07-19T07:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, I need to get something off my chest here.

Former child diva, Lindsay Lohan, has checked herself into a plush Los Angeles “sober lifestyle house” this week in an effort to thwart her pending 90 day jail stint as the result of violating her past DUI infraction. So another spoiled rotten “celebutante” is on the skids…whoopee shit, right? And I agree for the record.

Typically this is something I wouldn’t give a second consideration to, however, upon a little investigation into this acclaimed “sober living” house I was somewhat shocked to learn that the place reads more like a four star vacation resort than it does a rehab center. So what does this say about her actual intentions to clean up and get her act together exactly?

The name alone “Pickford Lofts”, just screams swanky from the get go. Certainly not the type of place you’d expect any real healing to take place. Each loft boasts a large living room with a flat-screen HD cable and DVD player, a sofa, two recliners, coffee & end tables, wireless high-speed Internet access. If she gets a bit peckish she can hone her culinary skills in a fully stocked kitchen with refrigerator and double-sink. Later, she can relax and dwell on her predicament in organized meditation classes and 12-step support meetings. Sounds pretty awful, right? To this effect, she can burn off the anxiety of dealing of her issues in a fully equipped gym and recreational facility. Geez, that’s brutal.

Shit, the place sounds like Hugh Hefner’s rumpus room for Christ sake!

So how does this in any way indicate that she has turned over a new leaf and is intending to better herself towards a more mature, responsible lifestyle? It more sounds to me like she’s just going away on vacation for a little while until the whole courtroom drama unfolds and the public eye turns itself to the next binge-drinking Hollywood idiot savant stupid enough to go for a tipsy joyride down Rodeo Drive.

In other words, she’s going to learn absolutely nothing. Clearly, here is a perfect example of somebody who should have been on the receiving end of an epic spanking – the likes of which hasn’t been seen nor recorded since Jesus’ fateful jaunt down the Via Dolorosa. Hell, it’s not too late! Maybe a public doling out of corporal punishment will help her put things in proper perspective, not a brief layover in a trendy Fantasyland that most homeless and destitute people would sacrifice their eye teeth to visit, even if for only an hour.

I say, if she really wants to do some penitence and turn her life around she should be completely stripped of her celebrity status and, say, spend the next few weeks working as my maid scrubbing my bathroom, cleaning out my kitty litter and taking out my trash. Forget the frou-frou lifestyle, I’ll whip some sense into the girl and see to it that she learns a thing or two about responsibility through good ‘ol fashion humility and hard work. If she even so much as looks at another bottle of booze she’ll break down into fits of uncontrollable panic attacks a la Clockwork Orange.

Trust me!

Avian Holocaust

2010-07-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

I laughed off the whole Minuteman controversy as just Americans being your typical, low-brow paranoid Americans, but now they have gone too far. It seems now that the crazy Yanks have targeted us Canucks in a far more aggressive way. Namely, an outright attack aimed directly at the flocks of Canada Geese currently making their home in Brooklyn, NY.

Officials with the U.S. Department of Agriculture have recently hunted down and killed hundreds of Canada geese in a bid to improve airline security, the New York Times reported on Tuesday.

“Airline security”? Are you fucking kidding me? Since when has a Canada goose ever attempted to board a passenger plane with plastic explosives strapped to it's chest? But apparently, a large flock of Canada geese slammed head-on into a US Airways jetliner shortly after it took off from New York's LaGuardia airport in January 2009, forcing it to make an emergency landing in the Hudson River. Umm, birds flying in the air? The heck you say! The winged bastards – let’s kill them all!

What kind of logic is that? After all, who has more right to be in the air; us or the geese? It’s not like the geese purposefully planned and carried out a heinous attack on the jetliner, is it? They were probably just innocently flying around looking for the nearest Tim Hortons.

As a result, wildlife officials and biologists descended on the park, herded the geese into crates and took them to a nearby building where they were gassed, USDA spokeswoman Carol A. Bannerman told the Times.

Does this sound familiar? It’s a total avian Holocaust! Did we learn nothing from World War II? And, oddly enough, aviation safety is not even listed among the many problems — accumulation of droppings, fouling of recreational areas, attacks on humans — that can "quickly develop as bird numbers increase," according to a USDA fact sheet.

If you ask me, it just sounds as if someone just has it out for the poor geese. I’m surprised then that they also didn’t strip them of their citizenship and force them to wear colored symbols on their clothes to immediately identify them as an inferior. What next? Where does it stop? Are the Yanks going to target the Florida snowbirds next? And where is Sir Paul McCartney now anyway? Is he protesting the mass euthanasia of these defenseless Canada geese or is he still crawling around on an iceberg somewhere in the St. Lawrence trying to save the seals?

It’s like the birds have become the scapegoat for the 30,000 or so lost lives in 9/11. The Americans never got Osama bin Laden but they did manage to bag themselves a couple thousand Canada Geese.

“Job well done, guys! Mission Accomplished”

Don’t they have more important things to concern themselves with anyway like – oh, I don’t know - say, capping oil leaks in the Gulf, or should they just kill all the fish for getting in the way of the underwater restoration efforts?

On the Subject of Beating Women With Sticks

2010-03-16T11:31:00.000-07:00

Remember that age old chestnut “you’ll be beating the women off with a stick”? My grandmother used to say it to me as a child when I’d manage to get cleaned up for Sunday school, “you’re so handsome, you’ll be beating the girls off with a stick”*. My mother also used it on my Prom night before I left to pick up my Prom date, “you’ll be beating her off with a stick”. Not exactly the "beating" I had in mind back then either. Even recently, when I started loosing weight, my female colleagues at work would say to me, “My, just look at you! Why you’ll be beating them off with a stick!” Excuse me? Were these ladies, including my own mother and grandmother gone absolutely Animal Crackers to be suggesting something so ludicrous? Or is there just some commonly recognized rule about handsome men beating woman with sticks that I’m just not aware of?

Where in the hell did that saying come from anyway? And more importantly, where are all these women beating sticks anyway? I don’t know about anyone else, but I hear this saying often enough that I also think I’d be seeing these things abso-fucking-lutely everywhere! I mean, I have a few old ornamental walking sticks belonging to distant relatives of mine all collecting dust in the front foyer of my home, but definitely no women beating sticks.

This raises lots of interesting questions. First, how on earth did this popular saying originate anyway? Even Google let me down here. I found everything from Urban Dictionary references to ‘pimp sticks’ and ‘wigger sticks’, to complete Ye Olde English genealogies for other sayings like “getting the short end of the stick”, which, is an entirely different blog post…believe me! But absolutely no luck on finding historical references on any ancient custom regarding handsome men beating off women with sticks, staffs, staves, poles, canes, batons, and clubs, whatever. In fact, it appears to be exactly the opposite…they entirely welcome them with open arms. Okay, so the Marquis de Sade might have had a little fun with sticks n’ stuff, but I’m not so confident that this adage is directly attributed to him personally.

My next follow up question along this line of thinking, is how popular are these handsome guys exactly given that they’re literally beating all the women with sticks? I don’t know about you ladies, but I’m not likely to fawn over someone who expresses himself in such a violent manner. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the odd stick beating, but only under the right circumstances. I’m also not likely to suggest something so drastic on a first date either. It seems I’m unpopular enough with the ladies that I don’t also need to resort to thrashing them within an inch of their lives in order to make them fall for me. Besides, black and blue are definitely not my favorite color scheme anyway.

My second question is what does a woman beating stick look like? I, personally, have never knowing come across a woman beating stick, nor would I even recognize one if I were to be beaten with it. Are they similar to the fancy walking sticks you see in old Eaton’s catalogues, or are they more of a basic switch you’d pick off a tree to deliver any random whoopins’? Or perhaps they’re something akin to the traditional Canadian seal clubs we all have stashed away in the backs of our closets. I’m surprised that there aren’t people out there who actively collect these women beating sticks and show them on traveling displays across the country. Imagine visiting that exhibit at the Royal Ontario Museum; the ‘20th Century Beating Sticks’ display right between the ‘Ancient Mesopotamian Pottery’ and ‘Early Egyptian Sarcophaguses’. An exhibit that sells out weeks in advance I’m sure…

Something else which concerns me: why aren’t there any beating sticks being passed down through the generations from any of the male descendants in my family? Did we just not participate in this seemingly popular dating pastime, or were we too poor to own our own sticks? Or worse, were all the men in my family line complete freak shows or something? This notion does absolutely nothing to make me fell any more confident in dealing with my current romantic draught.

Maybe I should just go out and get myself one of these woman beating sticks and begin dolling out the odd thrashing in an effort to attract more babes. What’s the worst that can happen? A felony charge? Fifteen to life in a maximum security prison? Meh. But what if it does in fact get me laid? After all, it’s just crazy enough that it might work…and that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

So all you hot babes, look out! I’m armed and out looking for love. For as John Cougar Mellencamp once coined:

“Come on baby, make it hurt so good.
Sometimes love don't feel like it should.
You make it hurt so good.”

* Which is also the only time I ever actually enjoyed hearing this phrase as, being only 6 years old then, tormenting the girls at Sunday school was a favorite past time.

The Philippine File

2009-12-31T15:15:00.000-08:00

(The following are excerpts from the journal I kept faithfully during my four-week working holiday to the other side of the globe. And in keeping with the whole randomness of Philippine culture, these excerpts have been listed in no specific order and for no apparent purpose other than to give the false impression of something resembling organized chaos which, in essence, is akin to the entire Philippine experience.)

October 12nd, Cebu Pacific – Terminal 3, Ninoy Aquino International Airport; Manila, Philippines (7:30am)

Spending my Canadian Thanksgiving at the airport waiting to board my flight to Bacolod. The only thing resembling a holiday feast is the old man picking his nose beside me and the weird purple alien turd-like ice cream which may, or may not, have random pig parts in it. Then again, the same could be said for just about every food item in the Philippines. Suffice to say, Filipino people eat just about anything…pig ears, chicken feet, butts on a stick, chicken livers, rotten duck embryo’s, not to mention a strange penchant for anything deep purple in color (cupcakes, tarts, pies, ice cream, etc.)

October 18th, The Old Ruins; Bacolod, Philippines (8:30pm)

Japanese tourists will take photos of just about anything. I am watching one woman have her picture taken at least 500 goddamn times…on the rock, off the rock, over the rock, leaning on the rock - for fuck sakes woman, how many pictures do you need of yourself and a rock?

October 1st, Lester Pearson Airport; Toronto, ON (7:15am)

The “sniffer” machine at the airport security gather is rather new and thereby scary to me. Apparently it “sniffs” out and detects traces of chemicals that may still be lingering on any mischievous terrorist. Whatever, I think it’s just another excuse to flush out hippies.

If they were really concerned about dangerous and potentially lethal chemical compounds they set this sniffer machine outside the public bathroom just outside “Beaches Boardwalk Café” in Terminal 3. The remnants of their featured ‘Scrambled Egg Platter’ will no doubt register off the chart and make any budding Taliban chemist green with envy.

October 14th, Chicken House, Bacolod, Philippines (4:45pm)

Menu options: “Pecho” (breast), “isol” (ass), or “atay” (liver).

Hmmm. I think I’ll stick with the breast please. I’ll need a few drinks before I build up enough Dutch courage to tackle the chicken ass.

October 29th, Flight CX906 to Hong Kong (10:45am)

Too good to be true headline from the Philippine Daily Inquirer: “Gov’t, MILF Sign Accord to Spare Millions”. How incredibly fucking awesome is that? Is that the best name they could think of for their terrorist group? Really? ‘MILF’ actually stands for the secessionist ‘Moro Islamic Liberation Front’, and not ‘Militants I’d Like to Fuck’ as I originally thought.

How do people ever take these people seriously? Do you negotiate a peace treaty or the price for a room at some No-Tell Motel for a heated quickie? Whatever the case, it seems that MILF has agreed to sign a deal to keep civilians out of harms way during clashes in Mindanao. Is that what we’re calling it these days? It’s a good will gesture to restart the stalled peace talks. Personally, I would have asked for a blow job as a good will gesture, but that’s just me.

“The next logical move is to resume the peace negotiations”, said Eid Kabalu, MILF spokesperson. By that, I think he means a five-alarm booty-call back at party headquarters. “Formal resumption of talks is imminent”, he said in a phone interview (which, subsequently, happened to cost $1.99 for the first minute then $3.99 for each consecutive minute – local long distance and toll charges still apply), adding that both parties were looking for a date for the resumption of talks, “hopefully before Christmas”. What he failed to mention is that these dates they’re looking for are more than likely located in the back pages of Swank magazine.

I could go on and on and on and on and…

October 11th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (9:45am)

Woke myself out of a deep sleep with the rank stench of my own Bubba Gump Garlic Shrimp farts.

October 18th, The Old Ruins; Bacolod, Philippines (8:00pm)

Had dinner tonight at ‘The Old Ruins’. Very nice, of course, but the Filipino’s really need to take a course in marketing and naming convention. Chicken House sells chicken; The Old House is an old house; The Old Cemetery is an old cemetery, and The Old Ruins are old ruins…I get it already.

October 1st, Lester Pearson Airport; Toronto, ON (7:45am)

I don’t understand the whole automated bathroom thing in airports. The towels are dispensed automatically. The toilet paper automatically tears after 2 flimsy sheets, and the toilet flushes every time you lift your ass. Now, I’m not saying I’m against the whole ecological ‘Save the Planet’ philosophy of controlled dispensing in order to limit man’s wastefulness and the overall negative impact on his environment, but what sense does it make to supply toilet paper so thin that you need to wipe at least three thousand times before you can safely put your pants back on? Never mind the water you’re wasting each time the toilet flushes each time you stand up and sit down while you helplessly try to clean yourself with this cheap-ass toilet paper. I swear my toilet must have flushed the equivalent of a small inland lake by the time I managed to exit the stall. There is probably a whole species of sea scallop now on the endangered list as a result of wasting so much natural habitat wiping my ass.

October 9th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (3:00pm)

Lucky me, I have acquired a case of the screaming shits. If pooping were an Olympic sport I’d win the gold medal let me tell you! Whoever said “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” should be tied up and left on the streets of Ortigas for a speed bump. I haven’t felt this ill since the Season Premiere of ‘Dancing With the Stars’.

October 18th, Gaisano Mall; Bacolod, Philippines (1:30pm)

I’ve about had it with the trannies. Here a tranny, there a tranny, everywhere a tranny, tranny. For such a modest and reserved culture, there sure is a fuck of a lot of transvestites walking around! I’m developing a deep mistrust of any good looking female now as I just can’t immediately assume that this vision of loveliness also has a huge horse cock swinging between her legs.

October 1st, Lester Pearson Airport; Toronto, ON (8:30am)

Looking around the airport lobby (Gate 35C) there is wide scope of multi-culturalism evident. There are at least 12 –13 different sleepy-eyed nationalities waiting to board flight CX919 to Hong Kong. I wonder what other cultural differences await for me on the other side. Are there any particular social no-no’s I should be aware of? After all, it is Eastern Asian, the very epicenter of “weird”. For example, you never touch the head of someone in a largely Buddhist country - even that of a child - or not embracing anyone from Saudi Arabia or other places in the Middle East. You would never dream sneeze at a dinner table in Venezuela or use your chopsticks to pull a plate closer in China. You get the picture. So what others are out there besides these old chestnuts? Is there a book published that has an updated listing of all these cultural social faux pas’s?

If there were a single taboo gesture that is universal it would be to never kick someone in the Charlie Brown’s. And that goes for all nationalities and sexes while we’re at it. No matter where you are or in whose presence you may find yourself, it would be a pretty safe bet to say that it would be totally frowned upon to hoof someone in the nads. Yes sir, nothing says “rude, obnoxious tourist” quite like a sharp, swift kick to the junk. You may as well tattoo “I’m not from around here” on your forehead and check yourself into the nearest maximum security prison.

October 5th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (8:15pm)

The courtesy hotel “Guest Security Advisory” memo this morning addresses the issue of street crime in the area. Yeah, nothing like a Security Advisory to give you the warm fuzzies first thing in the morning. In this memo, they recommend to avoid talking to “friendly” strangers, as they are apt to lure you into their vehicles and offer drinks spiked with gamma-hydroxbuttyrate, which induces immediate sleep and subsequent memory lass. Personally, that sounds like my Prom Night, but I get their point. You just know that any drug with the word ‘butt’ stuck in the middle of it isn’t going to end up being all pretty rainbows and talking unicorns, dig? If you’re lucky, you’ll just get robbed and left for dead.

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G; Toronto, ON (9:25am)

First observation: I’m frickin’ HUGE! I’m, like, easily the tallest one on this plane.

Second observation: All these short Asian people look like ninja’s, or the type of people who might know ninja’s.

Despite my height advantage, if things go all ‘Snakes on a Plane’ I’d still need to keep a close watch of these ninja lovin’ bastards. I could just as easily meet my fate as the result of a ‘Philippino Death Touch’ after accidentally bumping into an old woman in the aisle on my way to the lavatory. If anyone even looks at me funny I’m going to loudly give them my best Godzilla-like shriek as if to say: “Back off there Bruce Lee, or I’ll eat you whole!”

October 20th, Bacolod-Silay Airport, Bacolod, Philippines (5:30pm)

I read an interesting tidbit about Filipino’s in the airport lobby. Apparently, Filipino people are more subject to ‘Bangungot’, which is a sleep paralysis or dying from your nightmare. Good to know. Since, it’s also said that you develop bad dreams when you eat too much, and given what these people eat on a daily basis I’m not fucking surprised! Stuff me full of grilled chicken asshole and I’m likely to die in my sleep of extreme indigestion too.

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G; Toronto, ON (9:28am)

Third observation: I can’t believe this plane is even going to get airborne. It’s so big that it has an onboard fruit market and a shuttle to get you there.

October 12th, Bacolod Airport, (10:00am)

If I wasn’t in Kansas before, I sure as shit must have just landed on the moon. Palm trees, sugar cane, thatched huts, ox-driven carts – it’s like I just landed in Apocalypse Now!

Immediately upon leaving the plane they take your temperature. Why? Who the fuck knows. To do this, they aim a laser gun at your forehead for only a few seconds and give you a reading. Now, I’m certain this is a harmless process, but for anyone from North America, having a gun of any sort pointed directly at your head without explanation is more than a tad bit uncomfortable. I almost shit my pants right there on the spot when I first saw the faint flicker of a laser beam hone in on my temple, let me tell you. Of course, even though it all turned out well enough (31-degrees, or “normal”), with my luck they also just gave me brain cancer. I also doubt very highly that the dude in the white lab coat pointing the gun at passengers while they disembarked ever had any credible training in order to certifiably operate a laser.

Afterwards, you are presented with three small pills in the even you get sick - no explanation why or what for. Hey, I just got off the plane and they’re already giving me free drugs. How fucking awesome is that?

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G; Toronto, ON (9:35am)

So after take off, it’s only going to be a short 12,562km to Hong Kong. By the time I get there I will be 65 years old and ready for retirement. Guaranteed I will need Viagra if I’m lucky enough to hook up with any local hunnies. “Geez, sorry babe. It was working fine when I left!”

October 19th, Gaisano Mall, Bacolod, Philippines (6:30pm)

The most popular form of public transport here are “tri-bikes”. The streets are literally crowded with them. The bikes themselves look like they’re constructed of random plumbing parts and look about as durable as Tinker Toys. And nothing about these bikes could be considered as comfortable, for neither rider nor driver. Absolutely none of these bikes have cushions seats, so these poor bastards much have asses of granite from riding around on these things all day.

October 29th, Ninoy Aquino International Airport; Manila, Philippines (6:45pm)

Just barely made my flight thanks to the chin-wagging customs officer taking his sweet fucking time processing passenger’s passports. You’d think he was Dog the Bounty Hunter or something. Just as my flight began to blink ‘Final Boarding’, this guy decides it’s the perfect time to have a stretch and share a giggle or two with his fellow customs officers. “Look here, Needledick. This isn’t the Filipino Mr. Congeniality contest…hurry the fuck up or there’s going to be blood”. Swear to god, I was ready to leap through that blast-proof barrier, tear his head off and use it to stamp my own bloody passport. “Salamat, asshat!”

But it seems this is the norm here at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport as lines are currently longer than the lines at Disney’s ‘Space Mountain’. It’s enough to drive you to insanity. And if that’s not bad enough, there’s the mandatory 500 Pesos “Passenger Service Charge” fee they fuck you with before you can board your plane. You mean, I have to pay for the privilege of being part of this total clusterfuck? Why not just rape me behind the Check-In Counter and be done with it.

But wait, there’s more! Lets not forget the 250 Pesos “Security Development Charge” you also get strapped with. This seemingly is being put to good use considering there’s nearly twice as many guards as there are to passengers and, funnily enough, not one of them is doing a single thing to assist with sorting things out apart from glaring at us suspiciously. Bravo! Good plan with the spending there. I know if I had my way on how my Security Development Charge is to be allocated, 249.99 of it would be spent on developing these fuckheads a goddamn clue!

But I did manage to make my flight just in the nick of time just to end up sitting and idling on the airport tarmac.

Only in the Philippines!

October 4th, Greenhills; Manila, Philippines (12:30pm)

“Greenhills” marketplace is off the hook. Pearls, knock off designer clothes, shoes, import items…you fucking name it. You could probably buy yourself a Filipino orphan child for the price of one week’s worth of groceries. In the span of one afternoon, I dropped more money than Michael J. Fox at a parking meter.

This place is an absolute labyrinth of stalls, booths, vendor stands, etc. This place makes King Minos’ maze at Crete seem like a velodrome. I half expected a Minotaur to charge me down in one of the narrow vendor aisles.

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G (2:00pm)

I’ve been on this plane for five hours and I’ve already watched so much television my eyes are at risk of bleeding out. Two movies, one documentary on the mating habits of bumble bees, a few games of Centipede, and more episodes of ‘King of the Hill’ than you could shake a remote control at. I am rather pleased however at having beaten the computer in a game of chess…not once, but twice! You know you reached your life’s Zenith when you manage to beat the onboard computer in a game of Battle Chess. This plane could plunge out of the sky in the middle of the Arctic Circle never to be seen again and I would die a happy man.

October 12th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines (2:05pm)

Note to self: trying to sleep in the middle of the day while a drunken Filipino butchers ‘For Your Eyes Only’ at the karaoke bar across the street, is about as likely as teaching a pony to play the flute.

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G (9:30pm)

Twelve and a half hours on this plane so far and I haven’t killed anybody yet. Thanks Heaven for small miracles. That’s more time spent in a small, cramped and uncomfortable location than any human should ever have to endure.

October 30th, Hong Kong International Airport (2:45pm)

I’m sitting at a Sports Bar listening to Disco Music and eating chicken wings, potato skins, onion rings and a Diet Coke…weird sensation considering where I am currently. Particularly strange is the bottle of Dijon mustard they brought to my table for whatever reason.

October 2nd, Hong Kong International Airport (1:30pm)

Funny thing about Hong Kong – everyone looks like Jet Li.

I’m a bit nerved by the number of people walking around wearing surgical germ masks. I bet if I sneezed openly at least half a dozen people would duck and roll for cover.

I wonder if they have an alley somewhere where I can place bets on Kumate-style stick fighting or something while I wait for my connecting flight to Manila?

October 25th, Village of Cardona; Province of Rizal, Philippines (11:30am)

I am attending a Filipino Hawaiian Luau wedding. What are the chances of that happening twice in your lifetime? Your more likely to get struck by lightning twice.

Filipino’s are big on the ‘L’ word. The word ‘love’ was used approximately 39,892,362,298 times inside a 30-minute ceremony. Thank God there isn’t also a customary drinking game to go along with it.

October 6th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (10:00am)

Had my toe nails buffed to high sheen by a pretty Filipino woman. That was my little treat to heal my bruised pride after yesterday’s abysmal display of golf prowess. I think over the course of 18 holes I embarrassed myself, my caddy, and my umbrella girl, as well as my family and friends for generations to come. The whole experience was about as enjoyable as having hot lava poured down your pants. Luckily, it also afforded me the opportunity to down many beers afterwards in an effort to erase the whole fiasco from my memory. Now, I’m proud to say, I will most be remembered for my beer chugging skills than I will for my shitty driving, chipping or putting skills.

Random cultural observation: it seems it is perfectly acceptable to be wrist deep up your nose in public.

October 13th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines (3:30pm)

Requested a taxi driver to take me “shopping’ and got dropped off at a local Third World style marketplace which was a cross between a farmers market and a ‘Little Shop of Horrors’.

If I was looking for local flavor, I sure found it here in the form of grains, spices, sweet breads, candies, funny-looking fruits and vegetables, and just about every random animal part you could ever think to look for. Let’s not forget the endless aisles of butchers, fish mongers, textile merchants, dry good vendors, flip-flop salesmen, and kitchen utensil salesgirls, not to mention the other random nick-nack and brick-a-brack. Except that this place makes your local Dollar-Rama look like Macy’s. There are even little seated areas that act as cafeterias to serve shoppers snacks and drinks. If it wasn’t for the fact that you weren’t surrounded by such poverty and a smell that could stop a charging rhino in it’s tracks, you might think you were at the Kmart cafeteria at your local public mall.

And in the middle of all this chaos – there it is – Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ playing loud and proud through the Walmart brand ghetto blaster that’s hanging from the ceiling, which acts as the internal muzac system.

Oh, and MacDonald’s of course. It never ceases to amaze me how MacDonald’s manages to integrate itself into every local culture – no matter how poor or destitute. Yep, just when you think you’ve reached the most desolate place on earth, there it will be – the Golden Arches. When we colonize another planet, MacDonald’s will be serving up cheeseburgers in the space station. It just spreads like the plague.

October 29th, Flight CX826 to Toronto (7:30pm)

You have to wonder about some passengers and what they do in airplane bathrooms. What the fuck takes them so long? I waited nearly 20 minutes for two people to finish their business. What could they have possibly been doing in their for 20 freakin’ minutes? You know what I think about when I go into any public bathroom? Getting the fuck out again – that’s what! But noooooooo, some people like to make a day out of it; plan a picnic, see the sights, take in a movie, grab coffee, that kind of thing. Just taking their sweet ass time and enjoy themselves with no consideration for the rest of us out here experiencing bladder pains waiting our turn to use the facilities. I almost had to ask the stewardess to pass me an empty Ginger Ale can to piss in.

Finally, one of the morons emerges from one bathroom leaving a wake of shit behind them: used napkins, wadded towelettes, wrappers, a toothbrush, and water (or what I hope was water) absolutely everywhere. It looked like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in there. All that was missing was some guy making off with pairs of Levi’s.

October 10th, Rogues; Burgos, Manila, Philippines (11:35pm)

I’m sipping beers wrapped in paper napkins in what would best be considered as the local “Red Light District”. Except, by North American standards, this district is more of a dull rose-tinted light than it is red. There is nothing that would be considered as steamy, per se. The dancing girls dance with all the charged enthusiasm of someone who has just undergone a full frontal lobotomy. They’re obviously bored out of their semi-naked minds. Their luscious tight nubile bodies clad in skimpy day-glow bikini’s may say, “hello, sailor!” but their yawns of indifference say “God help me.”

October 21st, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (8:30am)

Looking at the morning paper I am seeing photos of typhoon victims, and I notice in each picture that they are all smiling away happily as if nothing had happened. Weird, right? But then again, think about it, these pictures are of displaced families whose villages were washed away as a result of Typhoon Peping. And from the looks of the photos, the evacuation centers look more hospitable than the villages themselves. So this is most likely an upgrade in living for these people. Clean tents, good food, clean water, medical aid, shit, it’s Christmas come early for these people. No wonder they’re so happy! They’re just wishing for the next tropical storm in order to extend their stays in paradise.

October 16th, Planta Hotel; Bacolod, Philippines (5:30pm)

I think God is having a laugh at my expense some days. For instance, he hasn’t allowed me to sleep for the past 72 hours. As soon as my head hits the pillow it’s either pigs screeching bloody murder as they’re hauled behind the local “Lechon” BBQ’s for slaughter, drunken karaoke, fireworks which more sound like a washing machine being dragged down the middle of the street and today, some open-air festival in the parking lot of Gaisano Mall across the street kicking off the Masskara Festival…and you just know how I loves me my Filipino pop music.

October 2nd, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (11:00pm)

I feel like a total Rock Star. My hotel room looks as if it has been designed and customized just for me. Now I know how Cheops must have felt when he first laid eyes on the Great Pyramid; how Pope Julius II felt when he first strolled into the Sistine Chapel; how the Shah felt when he first kicked in the door at the Taj Mahal; or even how the Duke of Buckingham felt when he first laid eyes on, well, Buckingham Palace. You get the gist…

I have been warned, however, to never - under NO circumstances - ever drink the water here in Manila unless it has been sealed, resealed and blessed by at least a dozen holy men first. Apparently, just using tap water here to just brush your teeth is akin to injecting cyanide straight into your veins.

October 3rd, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (8:00pm)

Woke up to a heavy rainfall outside my 14th floor suite. This is inevitably the beginning of the latest “Super Typhoon” Peping. Sounds more like Pluto’s retarded Asian stepsister if you ask me…certainly not a Category 5 tropical storm. Is this the best that PAGASA (Philippine Atmospherical, Geographical, and Astronomical Services Administration) could think of? Shit, if they really wanted to scare the pants off us leery travelers why didn’t they name it ‘Typhoon Vader’ and be done with it?

October 18th, Masskara Festival; Bacolod, Philippines (12:30am)

Tonight I stared Fear directly in the eye and did not flinch. No, I did not stick my head inside a bucket of live tarantula’s or anything, but I did suck the brains out of a giant shrimp. This was particularly significant as it totally goes against Rule #765 of life, which basically states that one - meaning me, of course - should never suck the brains out of, well, anything.

October 4th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (7:00am)

The most amazing thing to me so far about the city of Manila is the fucking traffic. To me, you literally take your life in your hands every time you buckle yourself into any motorized vehicle. Picture six lanes of traffic all jockeying for position on a three-lane span of road. Its organized chaos at it’s finest. The fact that nobody ever seems to side-swipe, crash into or, say, kill anyone else is an absolute miracle. Drivers seem to communicate with each other through a recognized series of honks of the car horn. I think it may go something like this:

1 honk = “Hello, here I am!”
2 honks = “Please be careful, I’m coming.”
3 honks = “Hey Buster, watch out!”
4 honks = “Are you out of your fucking mind, jackass?”

October 14th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines (8:00am)

Definition of Embarrassing: drop a 7ft. coiler in a Third World bathroom and have to call Housekeeping. This turd was almost as big as the poor unfortunate bastard who had to come plunge it away. Godzilla himself would have been impressed.

October 4th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (5:00pm)

New memo to all hotel patrons: “This is to inform you that for your own security as well as for the safety of your personal belongings in the room, we strongly discourage our guests from availing of external massage services.”

This sounds like a polite way of saying “Please don’t bring your whores into the hotel, you schmuck!” if you ask me.

October 12th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines (3:30pm)

I needed to buy a new belt (don’t ask) today. And I had no less than the same number it takes to field an entire women’s field hockey team trying to help me find one. It was like having my own shopping entourage. Now I know how ‘ol Brittany and K-Fed feel when they go out for the day. Once they determined my size, preferred color and buckle type they set loose to the scouring the many racks of men’s belts in search. All in all, they pulled about 50 belts in total for me to consider. I hadn’t even so much as scratched my ass by this point, and so far, everything was all being done for me. All I had to do was stand there and nod approvingly or frown depending on how I liked what they laid out before me. I felt like an Emperor deciding what to wear for the day.

October 18th, Planta Hotel; Bacolod, Philippines (10:30pm)

Filipino’s absolutely adore BBQ so these are definitely my kind of people! On the same stretch of street you will find at least two-dozen BBQ vendors all huddled together offering passers-by a variety of animal parts. It’s as if the whole chicken is just passed down the long row of BBQ’s where, each vendor just simply takes his or her piece for grilling; a conveyor belt of carcass if you will.

October 1st, Lester Pearson Airport; Toronto, ON (8:15am)

Nothing starts ones trip on a positive note like CNN disaster updates of oversea tsunamis (Samoa) and typhoons (Philippines) on the airport lobby television. Good times. The Pacific Ocean is angry and I’m about to swan dive right into the middle of it.

I’m thinking now I should have packed my extra swim goggles.

October 14th, Chicken House, Bacolod, Philippines (4:30pm)

I finally managed to get somewhere so I can try the famous Bacolodian chicken. I know, I know, chicken? I mean, really, how do you fuck up chicken exactly? But hey, it’s cool to just be known for something and chicken is as good as anything I suppose. After all, how can you go wrong with the chicken at a place called ‘The Chicken House’? Considering that my other options are the Burger Machine or Bong-Bong’s across the street, I am confident I made the right choice.

October 7th, Mega Mall; Ortigas, Manila, Philippines (12:00pm)

Shopping in the Philippines is insane. Entire Metropolis’ dedicated to marketing and consumerism. And with the exchange rate I feel like I don’t “shop” for goods and item, per se, I rape and pillage like a Viking. The only thing I don’t do is toss the sales lady over my shoulder, light the store ablaze and run off into the night with my discounted booty.

The only thing I can’t warm to is the happier-than-fuck music they constantly play over the mall’s PA system. It’s like being trapped in ‘It’s A Small World’ at Disneyland. It’s enough to drive you to hard drugs! Another thing that annoys while I’m at it is the over-zealous sales people in the shops themselves. Being obviously North American, I might as well as tattoo dollar signs on my forehead. If I browse for a shirt, they immediately fetch me pants, a belt, a tie, a blazer, shoes, dress socks, as well as every other possible piece of accessory item I could ever think to look for. It’s impossible to shop undisturbed. I’m afraid that I may snap on one of these shopping excursions and end up round kicking the sales person into the next millennium for coming within my 5ft. personal bubble.

October 25th, Village of Cardona; Province of Rizal, Philippines (1:30pm)

I saw something rather bizarre today which traveling out in the country. There standing by the middle of side of the road – in the middle of nowhere – was a cotton candy salesman. Huh? The questions this raises completely overload my brain. Why would someone pick this particular location to sell cotton candy? I personally haven’t seen anyone in nearly 20 minutes, much less anyone with balloons and a Kewpie doll. Where did this guy get his cotton candy? It’s not likely that there’s a cotton candy factory anywhere, nor is there any electricity for hundreds of miles to power any cotton candy machines that may in the area – which is bloody unlikely.

October 4th, Linden Suites Hotel; Manila, Philippines (6:30am)

Well, Peping came and went with all the destructive force of a wet fart. Whoopee.

October 16th, Pala-Pala’s; Bacolod, Philippines (2:30pm)

Had an enjoyable dinner of fresh garlic butter shrimp and lapu-lapu with coconut milk straight from the shell. I’m probably going to have the shits for a week but how fucking awesome does that sound?

October 1st, Flight CX919 to Hong Kong, Seat 39G (11:00am)

One thing I can say about Cathay Pacific for sure, and that’s they’re attentive as fuck. In the first 90 minutes alone we have been given a head set, a pillow, a blanket, a packet of peanuts, a complimentary beverage, an unidentifiable brunch-like meal, a refill on our beverages, and a snack baggy of fruit, granola and a bottle of water. Shit, anything else and there won’t be any room left in my seat for me. Christ, the way it’s going I’m going to need a Sherpa to help me cart all this shit off the plane.

The stewardesses are like beavers on crack as they busily distribute their wares, collecting garbage, delivering magazines, and refilling bottomless plastic glasses. You’re likely to get mowed down in the aisle with a runaway beverage cart while trying to navigate your way to the bathroom.

October 12th, Flight 475 to Bacolod, Seat 2A (8:30am)

Ho-lee-shit! This airplane is so small I’m nervous it won’t even lift off the ground with all of us aboard. It’s more of a crop duster if you ask me and we’re packed in here like chickens. I can’t even shrug my shoulders without giving someone a black eye. Here I’m seated in the second row and the cabin crew are practically sitting in my lap. I could give the co-pilot a pony ride during take-off for fuck sakes! And the cold steam cascading from the cabin ceiling does nothing to make me feel any more secure. It’s as if this plane it about to boil over or something, and given that the whole plane probably runs on the same electrical mechanics as your basic discounted Black & Decker kettle, this may not entirely be out of the question. My other concern is that if we should need to suddenly crash out in open water, I am doubtful that the emergency floatation vests will even fit me as, like everything else on this plane, is inevitably intended to fit Smurfs. Not gigantic, clumsy ass North Americans such as myself. Now I know how Gulliver felt among the Lilliputians. If I survive this flight I will truly have something to be thankful for this particular holiday season.

To make matters worse, the asshole seated in front of me - another North American like myself as it happens –immediately put his chair back into the reclining position, like, 60 nano-seconds into the flight. I have about 2 inches of space to maneuver my head. Shit, every time I exhale through my nostrils I part this idiot’s hair. If we crash land, I’m seeking out this prick to drown him and use his corpse as my floatation device.

October 14th, Gaisano Mall, Bacolod, Philippines (5:30pm)

Google has finally let me down. It lists as “Things to Do” in Bacolod as some park, a field, a cemetery, and some old house and a statue of some dude and a water buffalo. These are the key things of interest? Whoopee shit! I think I’ll just go back to my hotel room and masturbate.

October 19th, Planta Hotel; Bacolod, Philippines (8:30am)

I woke this morning with the realization that although I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here, I am ready to go home. I miss my bed. I miss my cat. I miss clean clothes. I miss my every day routine. I’m also developing the phobia that I smell like a grizzly bear.

I’ve grown weary of the street vendors, the Bacolod chicken, the drunken karaoke, the labyrinth malls, the hotel doorman, the tri-bikes, the BBQ, the armed guards, and the organized chaos they call traffic. Even sitting at the mall watching trannies has grown tiresome. And you just know you’re done when men in drag fail to bring you amusement. Mostly, I can’t stand to hear the Godfather theme played in the hotel lobby anymore. I’m going to run amok and stab somebody soon.

October 2nd, Ninoy Aquino International Airport; Manila, Philippines (9:30pm)

I’m waiting for my luggage and trying desperately to adjust to my new surroundings with a jet-lagged head full of marbles. I feel about as lively as a used douche bag.

October 29th, Flight CX906, Ninoy Aquino International Airport (6: 50pm)

For such small statured people, these Filipinos sure can build huge-ass airplanes when they want to. Compared to the plane I took to Bacolod, this double-decker Boeing 747-400 is a flying condominium. You don’t so much book a seat as you rent an apartment. It’s amazing to me that these things can get airborne at all. I feel like I’m at some neighborhood social gathering than I am on a flight to Hong Kong. I even feel inclined to introduce myself to the other passengers sitting around me. Not because I really give a shit, mind you, but because it might be nice to know whom I’m bobbing along beside in the middle of the China Sea when this gargantuan airplane falls out of the sky.

October 24th, Chicharong Monggo; Manila, Philippines (1:30pm)

Tried something called Shrimp Maruya at a local Philippine cuisine restaurant, which had the consistency of fiberglass. The picture in the menu looked nice, however, I’d rather gargle battery acid than ever bite into one of these nasty things again. Truly, this is what evil tastes like.

Later, I made another mistake by trying ‘Pinipig’ ice cream. I don’t know what I was thinking buying ice cream with the word ‘pig’ in it, but like a dumbass I did. The package promised “80% more pinipig!” Now, I have no idea what ‘pinipig’ is exactly, but if it’s Tagalog for ‘Devil’s nasty bits’, then that’s exactly what I had.

October 29th, Flight CX906 to Hong Kong (11:30am)

How weird is it to be watching ‘King of the Hill’, a cartoon about Texas rednecks, on a plane to Hong Kong?

October 12th, Planta Hotel, Bacolod, Philippines (1:30pm)

Upon arriving at the hotel I wandered across the street to the mall (if you want to call it that) and stocked up on fruit juice, water and biscuits to get me through the next few days. The stores here are funny in that, proportionately, there has to be at least three employees for each customer in the store. It’s not that the stores are huge on customer satisfaction so much, as they in reaping the full benefit of low hourly wages. They can afford to hire dozens of employees to stand lifelessly on the odd chance that someone may need assistance, or heavens forbid, place something back down improperly or out of place on the shelf. By just strolling down the canned goods aisle you can see how meticulously the labels on each and every can has been positioned just so. Then you realize that also up and down the same aisle are at least two dozens employees on their hands and knees rearranging all the misplaced cans back so that their labels face forward. Now, I’m sure that being able to list ‘Can Reorganizer’ on a resume demands a certain amount of respect, but geez!

Whenever you’re ready to purchase anything, you make your way to any one of the hundred’s of small checkout booths located throughout the store. There you will have one person to “validate” it (I’m guessing for inventory sake), someone else to double check that it was validated correctly (“Yup, one package biscuits…”), someone to ring it into the 1940’s era cash register, someone to collect your money and pass it to the cashier and then pass then change back, one person to wrap and bag your item for you, one person to staple your receipt to the bag, and lastly, another person to hand it to you, smile, and bid you a hap-hap-happy day. Its absolutely fucking crazy, man, crazy!

October 14th, Robinson’s Mall, Bacolod, Philippines (5:30pm)

There are armed guards absolutely everywhere. At the mall, the hotel, local shops, restaurants, cafes, salons, and even outside the front door of KFC. Heaven’s forbid anything should ever happen to the Colonel’s ‘Secret Recipe’!

But, really, if a militant terrorist faction ever decided that it wanted to strike a deep blow to moral society and completely disrupt the public peace, are they really going to target a KFC? Well, never mind, I guess stranger things have happened.

October 19th, Gaisano Mall, Bacolod, Philippines (1:30pm)

I decided to go for a shave this morning to alleviate the boredom. And let me tell you, you haven’t tasted life (or how lucky you are to have it) until you’ve let some transvestite shave you with a straight razor. I equate it with getting a blow job by a toothless alligator; it’s pretty scary but still perfectly safe. When they recline you back in the chair and place that hot towel over your face, well, I don’t know how anyone else might feel, but I was suddenly very aware of my exposed throat. What if that tranny decided to slit my throat and make off with my wallet and credit cards? What if I woke up hours later in a tub of ice with a missing kidney? I bet that’s not an easy souvenir t-shirt to find: “I went to the Philippines and all I got was this missing kidney”.

October 27th, Transcom, Pasig City, Philippines (11:30pm)

I am going to indulge in a lead treat tonight – ‘Taho’. For days, I’ve been watching the vendors outside the office spoon their gunk out of a silver pail into plastic cups for passer-bys and I think I’ve finally built up enough cahones to actually give it a try for myself. I mean, really, how often do you get to try things served out of a pail? This goes against one of my strictest observed personal rules when it comes to food: NEVER EAT THINGS SERVED OUT OF ANYTHING THAT COULD ALSO BE USED TO FEED LIVESTOCK. Call me crazy.

‘Taho’ is a soy-based refreshment that is typically served hot (thank you Google!). It’s a comfort snack food made from fresh silken tofu. The vendors’ (or ‘Magtataho’) make these goods before dawn by processing the fresh silken tofu into a consistency of very fine custard…and that’s the polite way of saying it looks like splooge. Shit, it closely resembles something you might expect to find jarred up in Peter North’s refrigerator. In fact, this also happens to violate my second-most strictly observed personal rule regarding food: NEVER EAT ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE SPUNK.

But, hey, some rules are just meant to be broken.

The brown sugar is then heated and caramelized to create a viscous amber-colored syrup called ‘annibal’. Sago “pearls” – similar to tapioca - purchased from the market is also boiled down to a gummy consistency until they are a translucent white. Hungry yet?

The Magtataho carries his mixtures in two large aluminum pails, which hang from either end of a yoke (again with the livestock feeling). One of the buckets carries the tofu base; the other holds the annibal and pearls. They serve their sugary goo into plastic cups using a wide shallow metal ladle that they skim the surface of the silken tofu curd with to remove excess water. Then using a long, thin ladle they scoop in some pearls and annibal, and voila! One plastic cup of spunky goodness!

And, yes, it tastes much better than it sounds. Absolutely delicious in fact!

October 29th, Flight CX826 to Toronto (7:00pm)

My dinner of braised chicken in tomato, mushroom, oregano sauce and penne rigate with hazelnut cake might just be the worst meal I have ever had the displeasure of eating. There are dumpsters that offer more nutritional value and flavor. My hazelnut cake could have actually been used a doorstop. I could have swallowed a hockey puck easier than this nasty dessert cake.

From Cheeseburgers to Triathlons

2009-07-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

“I acknowledge that a triathlon is an extreme test of a person’s physical and mental limits and carries with it potential for death, serious injury, and property loss.”

- Insurance waiver form
(Milton Triathlon – Subaru Triathlon Series)

Nine months ago I lost my mind; that is to say I made the impulsive decision to try the impossible and compete in the first athletic event since university (and that was a long fucking time ago, believe me!). And when I say “athletic” I mean something besides participating in frat house drinking games of Herculean scope. Since then just about every waking moment of my week and weekends have been about training for this goal.

At last, I decided I was going to try and make the last great leap from cheeseburgers to triathlons. And as of today, I have completed that summer’s goal of competing in (and surviving) three Sprint-length triathlons. The fact that I am only writing about it now three weeks later while reclining in a lawn chair at a bluegrass festival in a field somewhere in Oak hill, NY is testament that it has literally taken me this long to regain the basic use of my body. Hell, up until yesterday I had placed myself in voluntary traction on my couch waiting for the pain and aching to subside in my legs.

It has been since October of last year that I adopted the masochistic routine of someone on a serious mission to kill himself. Look at what this all means: “Tri” – meaning “three” – and “athlon” meaning, “prepare to have your sorry ass annihilated”. Before now, the only important things that I ever did in threes were toasted BLT’s and the number of daily trips to MacDonald’s. Never mind the whole swim, bike, and run thing.

Needless to say, I was to multi-sport what belt sanders are to nipples. Had somebody told me then that I would be up at the crack of dawn to swim laps at the local pool or start forgoing late Friday nights in front of the boob tube so that I could get up for an early 80k bike ride the next morning I would have responded in much the same manner as someone who has been confronted with a man riding an ostrich. And the chances of running into such a spectacle seemed much more probable then my ever-surviving one of these events.

Since then it’s been all about living the life of a crazed fitness junkie; I’ve spent the equivalent of the Gross National Income of a small developing country on sports socks; came home smelling of stinky rotting organic canal matter; purchased stocks in Bodyglide (you don’t wanna know); indulged in vegetarianism; shaved questionable body parts; and learned new and exciting ways to torture myself that would have the guards at Abu Ghraib prison green with envy. Most importantly, I adjusted to a lifestyle spent largely in a state of ever moistness.

Was it fun you ask?

Shit, no!

In fact it outright sucked. It was a total cul-de-sac of misery actually. At times, it was as if God himself were giving me the finger. But it was exciting. My feet were sore, my legs ached, my lungs burned and it made my heart beat faster than a Spider monkey jacked up on Mountain Dew. Any more excitement and I would have been a literal ‘spewnami’ of triathlete guts all over the pavement. My race stats would have been a smear at the 7.6k mark.

Yes, I have turned myself into quite a triathlete wannabe and have developed all the traits of someone totally blinded by their obsession. How else would you describe somebody who willingly volunteers for something known as “Fartlek” training? You just know this crazy bastard has got some fucking wires crossed somewhere. A year ago when I started had somebody asked me if I wanted to participate in anything with the word ‘fart’ in it they would have been immediately greeted with a judo chop to the throat!

I know now that Fartlek training doesn’t involve anything to do with bowel movements at all and, instead, is a mere reference for a form of aerobic training devised in the 1930s by Swedish coach Gosta Holmer as a means of enhancing an athlete’s continuous performance. It was originally developed for the Swedish Olympic cross-country team who had then been getting mightily pissed off at having been thrashed by the Finns throughout the 1920’s. The shame of which, simply goes without saying

Godless Sodomites.

At this point I have subscribed to all the popular Triathlete magazines and kept myself abreast of all the new lines of equipment that I would never be able to afford without taking up robbing banks. Seriously, these magazines are similar to porn in that I don’t always know what they’re talking about but I sure know I wants me some.

For example, I submit to you Exhibit A:

“Hyper-organized Type A triathlete will love the Zoot Tri Bag – this unit has more pockets than any other bag in review.”

So is it a bag or is it a unit? A hyper-whatsitnow? What the hell is a Type A triathlete exactly? I’m confused but I’m aroused. And, oh boy…pockets!

But seriously, big fucking deal.

Forget the pockets. For $89.00 how about a working defibrillator?

Or how about Exhibit B:

“The new SH-WRT51 is Shimano’s newest breakthrough in triathlon apparel. It delivers exceptional performance and consists of a rigid lightweight carbon fiber composite sole for efficient energy transfer. On this platform, Shimano adds a ventilation synthetic upper for warm weather riding and a wide single strap closure for easy entry and fast transitions. The SH-WRT51 has a seamless interior increase comfort during long races, while the attractive mint green color scheme looks good with this season’s latest tri fashions.”

Mint green? And at the modest cost of $390 – you better give me two.

What in the fuck are they even talking about?

These magazines will print page after page of full spread pictorials of “aerodynamic gel enhanced” bicycle seats that resemble splayed vaginas. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was supposed to sit on them or fuck them. The same goes for the endless editorials and in-depth exposes on running shoes, wetsuits, aero bars, hydration systems - you fucking name it - triathletes are the Batman of the athletic world. And all these articles managed to evoke a feeling in my loins not unlike the one I experienced on Prom night when I found my date passed out under the bleachers with her dress pulled up around her head.

Through this experience I have learned a lot about myself a lot about the sport. It has been a whirlwind of activity and emotion since this whole crazy train left the station. I’ve learned that Ibuprofen could be considered a vital food group. I’ve learned that pissing yourself isn’t something that triathletes necessarily frown upon. I’ve learned that there is life before 6:00am. I’ve learned that “pacing” isn’t something that just pertains to ‘All You Can Eat’ buffets. I’ve learned that Electrolytes aren’t citizens of Electrolia. I’ve learned that “carbo-loading” doesn’t have anything to do with loading cars or moving furniture. I’ve learned that “transitioning” is not some new Internet porn fetish. It's been a long strange journey indeed.

When I thought about getting into the sport I certainly wasn’t 100 per cent prepared, or even aware of the physical demand that the training would take on my mind and body. The truth is, I based my decision almost entirely after a drunken afternoon of watching these lanky skinny-assed aerodynamic Neoprene-clad motherfuckers cross the finish line at the Beijing Olympics*. They looked so slick and poised as they pistoned their way across the finish line to glory.

Shit, I could do that! How hard could it be anyway?

What I wasn’t particularly aware of then was the 10-11 months of running my sweaty gluttonous ass off on a treadmill during the winter, or sawing my bollocks back and forth on a stationary bicycle for hours at a time. There have definitely been much more glamorous moments in my life where I didn’t have snot and sweat dripping down my face and a tortured expression resembling that of a constipated orangutan. But it was all means to an end…and hopefully, not my end. It’s a very arduous (and moist) journey to the medal podium indeed!

So, dressed in an old ripped polyester track suit and equipped with a copy of the ‘Triathlon for Dummies’ book I began to plan out my next big athletic endeavor. I mean, my first athletic endeavor. However you want to look at it.

After consulting the ‘Triathlon for Dummies’ training bible I learned that it was going to be a little more difficult that jumping in the deep end and splashing out a few hundred lengths of the pool like an arthritic sea cow. The bible hinted that I would have to work on my stroking technique.

Hey, no problem there! I’ve been masturbating for years now. When it comes to stroking I am a natural athlete. If stroking were an Olympic sport I’d already be a world champion.

This was going to be easy - too easy.

Or so I thought…

Instead, it meant hours in the pool at the beckon call of my war lord swim coach early on Sunday mornings learning how to keep my head down, tuck my chin, raise my hips, bend at the elbow, loosen my wrists, extend my arm, “find the catch”, breath out of the side of my mouth, and, wait, what the fuck was I doing again?

Oh yeah, drowning.

There was a point during the winter where I thought I might be developing webbed feet given the amount of time I was spending in the pool doing laps. Don’t even get me going about the ever-present chapped lips! You couldn’t guess how hard it is to get a date with lips that looked like they belonged to a Chernobyl survivor. Yet, twice a week, I found myself enduring just these kinds of punishing drills and timed sets in some sort of self-initiated water torture. There were mornings I can remember where even Aquaman could have thrown in the towel!

In hindsight though, if I could train all over again I might consider doing things a bit differently.

To better prepare myself for the actual sensation of racing dozens (if not, hundreds) of combatants into the water to complete a kilometer or more swim I’d definitely spend less time in the pool at the YMCA. Instead, I’d just wrap myself in a rolled carpet and harness myself to an outboard motorboat and then have it drag me around while I try to swim in the opposite direction and friends are continuously punching and kicking me in the face and stomach for a half hour or so. This would be more representative of the early stages of the first triathlon leg. For added realism I could have one of those friends pour the occasion pint of canal water into my mouth through a funnel.

Enter the bicycle.

If the experience of swimming with flailing aqua warriors (not to mention the run to the bike afterwards) isn’t too much for you to handle, you will then need to immediately move on to completing a 30-55k bike ride.

Now, I had a bicycle growing up. What kid didn’t? Mine was a shiny metallic- orange Schwinn Stingray. You know the one with a 20-inch banana seat and ape hanger handlebars. And let’s not forget about those rad electrified spokes!

Yep, this sweet ride was the original Huggy Bear of pimped out bicycles. I remember going for joyrides around the block and risking life and limb to pop wheelies off the curb or jump my neighbors rose bush. I loved that ugly orange piece of chrome shit. But those childhood ambles around the ‘ol neighborhood couldn’t have been more removed from the bicycle rides that I was about to begin taking on early weekend mornings once spring arrived.

I was really looking forward to bicycle riding again. I had prepared all winter by sitting in weekly spin classes and even survived a weekly Brick workout that involved both indoor spinning and running together. Basically, it was just another way my coach was able to creatively take out all his pent up frustration in life on us hapless triathlete wannabe’s. I swear he must have lain awake at night trying to conjure up the perfect torture to unleash on our sorry asses - you could just see it in his eyes. His classes were absolutely diabolical in Machiavellian scope. Yet, endure them I did…willingly even.

There was no stopping this crazy train now!

But by the time the weather was finally nice enough that I could start cycling outside I only just then realized: I haven’t been on a bike since that Schwinn Stingray and that was nearly 25 years ago! So it was with extreme trepidation that I pedaled my way out to Starbucks at 7:00am to join a group of experienced riders on the first group ride of the season.

What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

I worked on learning to shift my gears effectively; how to keep a cadence; how to get low and aero over the bars; how to pull up on my pedals as well as pushing down; how to spin in circular motions, how to relax my shoulders and release my “death grip” on the handlebars; how to corner safely, and, ah fuck it…I learned how to go fast.

Who could have known? After all, to look at this body one would immediately assume it was originally designed with comfort in mind – not speed.

But it turns out that my new spinning legs were quite adept at making my road bicycle rocket down the tarmac at light speeds. After months of sitting on a stationary bike at the gym it was like passing through Dr. Who’s time tunnel. I enjoyed the whole process of pouring myself into my cycling shorts, clipping into my pedals and plugging into my headset before heading out for a three-hour bike ride across town.

I’ve also realized also that one can really get into their own self when they are out bicycling on their own. I’ve often been asked what goes through my mind when I’m out cycling. Am I thinking about tasks I have to complete at the office tomorrow or do I work out my grocery bill for the week? Truthfully, I don’t think much at all**. I have, however, learned that the only thing that ever goes through my head while I’m cycling is the lyrics to ZZ Top’s ‘Just Got Paid’. I don’t know why really - it’s my ‘Eye of the Tiger’ I guess. I suppose the bitchin’ melt-your-face guitar choruses just keep my legs a-goin’.

And, just for the record, my list of other favorite notable cycling tunes would also include:

· It’s a Long Way to the Top If You Want To Rock n Roll – AC/DC
· One Way Out – Allman Brothers
· Who Do You Love? – George Thurogood
· Yin & Yang and the Flower Pot Man – Love & Rockets
· Right Place, Wrong Time – Dr. John
· Move On Up – Curtis Mayfield
· Light Up Or Leave Me Alone – Traffic
· Born to Be Wild – Steppenwolf
· 30 Days In the Hole – Humble Pie
· Breaking Into Heaven – The Stone Roses

Of course, it wasn’t as if the coach was going to allow us much time to enjoy the sensation of making ourselves move smoothly and just appreciate the sunshine on our shoulders as the countryside whizzing by at 30kph as the wind passes through our helmets making that distinct sound of rushing air, no sir! Before you could whistle the first few bars of ‘Daisy, Daisy’ we were all pumping down rolling country roads and pedaling up hills with degrees of incline similar to those on the Pyramids at Giza. There were hills where I had expected to see men in tight lederhosen trumpeting on enormous flugelhorns to signal my arrival at the summit.

But still, it was infinitely more fun than reeking of chlorine and dealing with pruny skin.

If I was to ever - in any way –enhance my bike training at this point in preparation for Race Day I would set up a stationary bike in a closed garage and hook it up to a gas powered engine and crank it up. Next, I would place huge industrial fans on all sides (or perhaps just in front an engine for a Boeing 747) and power them babies up. Then I’d just pull the pin on the stationary bike’s back wheel and see how long I could remain vertical.

Enter the run. Oh hellacious misery.

Of all the triathlon disciplines running is my least favorite. There is little I would prefer running over. I’d rather pour hot lava down my shorts. I’d rather stick my dick into an angry beehive some days than drag my sorry carcass all over God’s creation in an exercise of complete sadomasochism. For me, the last running leg is the Bataan Death March before you get to cross the finish line. There is little to be enjoyed about the experience. The bible however, would have you believe that running is a “fun and pleasurable pastime that can be enjoyed by everyone”.

Get fucked.

Here’s where the ‘Triathlon Training for Dummies’ book and I part ways. Where the bible argues that there is an incredible “runners high” to be had from participating in running, I would say that you need to be loaded to the tits and high already before you could experience anything remotely enjoyable while running. The bible even goes on to say: “If you can get past that first mile and learn how to let your body relax and run naturally, you can experience the confidence, happiness, and feeling as if you can run forever.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Whoever said that must clearly take me for a much larger dummy than this book’s intended market. Trying to explain to me how the task of running is “fun and pleasurable” would be like explaining String Theory to a mackerel. After already having accomplished a kilometer swim and a 30k bike ride running is akin to trying to pole vault with your penis - its nearly as impossible and you’re definitely sure to injure something.

You know what I enjoy about running? Stopping. And I have to still endure 5-10k of it before the end, or, I end up as a sticky puddle of prostatic secretion somewhere along the route. I’m not what you would call “graceful” when it comes to running. On the other two disciplines I can feign something as capable, but when I run I must look like John Merrick chasing after loose change.

If I were going to try and prepare any better I would set up a treadmill in the gym sauna and run for an entire week. Then I would strap a grenade to my chest, pull the pin and see how long I could carry on before it exploded.

Oh wait, that’s what it feels like already!

And lets not forget the all-important “fourth discipline” of triathlon – the transition.

The “transition” is the brief stage between the different individual legs where you move from your swim onto the bike and from your bike into the run. It’s the triathletes’ closet area so to speak. This doesn’t sound like much effort of course, until you’ve actually tried to wriggle out of a wetsuit and get into a pair of cycling shoes with unfiltered brain leakage coming out your ears moments after emerging from icy water.

Let me inform you: I can barely remember my name much less in what order to put on my helmet, gloves and sun glasses before launching into a hard 60-plus-minute cycle ride.

The transition area is cool though because it’s like window-shopping as you browse over all the thousands of dollars worth of tri equipment that belongs to everyone else. I’ve seen bicycles worth more than my student loans!

There’s computers, GPS systems, aero bars, tri shoes, wetsuits, hydration systems, power bars, power gels and other assorted goos, energy drinks, swim goggles, cycle helmets, tri bags, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseum. Triathletes are almost bacchanalian in nature when it comes to their fancy equipment. And all of it is inevitably spread out and proudly displayed over a torn and stained hand towel laid out on the ground beside their NASA designed and custom-built tri-bike.

Fitting.

Personally, I think it’s all as useless as a bucket of armpits. Sure it’s fun and look, like, really fucking cool, but the true piece of equipment is the triathletes’ body. Without it, all the rest of that tri shit isn’t worth the bubble wrap it came in. Shit, my bicycle is so old that it remembers when Antonio Ricci delivered flyers on foot***. But it allows me to get from point A to point B relatively quickly and it does that marvelously. And there is nothing so rewarding in triathlon I have found than passing somebody who has the equivalent of Fort Knox in equipment on their person.

* I had also been watching the last 10 minutes of Ultimate Fighter so I was more than a little amped and ready to kick some ass.

** No real surprise there, eh?

*** Most obscure reference EVER!

Monkey Shines

2009-03-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

Well, it seemed that the world has still not heeded my warning about taking the super-smart chimpanzee threat seriously. Oh, no! It’s still all “look how cute they are”, and “my, but aren’t they clever!”

That’s just what the little simian fuckers want you to believe.

The latest case in point occurred in Stamford, Connecticut recently where Travis, a 14-year old 200lb chimpanzee went all ape shit – literally –mauling a 55-year-old Carla Nash, ripping apart her face and biting off both her hands.

Why don’t you ask Carla how cute she thinks chimpanzees are? Mind you, she may have some difficulty, what with not having any lips anymore.

Travis, a veteran of Old Navy and Coca-Cola* commercials has been raised by 70-year-old Sandra Herold from the time he was 3 months old and treated like a legitimate member of the Herold family. He was toilet trained and able to feed and cloth himself. He dined on steak and lobster and sipped wine from long stemmed glasses. To pass the time, he enjoyed surfing the web, going for long car drives, watching television using the remote control, and regularly brushing his teeth with a Water Pik.

Isn’t that just perfect!

Let me tell you, the world needs itself another domesticated chimpanzee like it needs another white Ford Bronco chase. We should have bombed those Senegalese monkeys back to the Stone Age when we had a chance. Now they’re multiplying, biding their time before they unleash a full-blown Armageddon on mankind.

For all we know, Travis attacked Nash because he needed her face and limbs for a recipe he had Googled up on the Internet that morning. Who knows? Need I remind you that these are some pretty crafty sons of bitches?

All the signs are there.

Apparently, Travis had appeared somewhat “rambunctious” early that day when he stole keys from the kitchen table, unlocked the door and let himself out into the backyard. All attempts to lure him back inside failed, even after Herod slipped him some Xanax - an anti-anxiety drug used for pets and humans alike - in a cup of tea. Isn't that nice?

Great plan, let’s give the hyper-agitated tea-totaling monkey drugs. Of course, what Herod didn’t realize is that Xanax actually causes an increase in anxiety in animals before they adjust to it. So, really, she just handed the monkey the loaded weapon he was looking for with that cup of spiked tea. Shit, why don't we just give them all the launch codes now?

Enter poor Carla Nash.

Carla had driven over to assist Herod in rounding up Travis from the backyard. But as soon as she stepped out of the car at 3:40pm, Travis went at her with the full force of a runaway train, ripping at her face and biting off her hands.

Stamford Police Chief Capt. Richard Conklin indicated t the press that it was not clear what prompted Travis’ assault and surmised that it might have been Nash’s new hairstyle that confused ‘ol Travis. Yeah, that’s it. The chimp must have been offended by Nash’s sense of style after watching too many makeover Reality TV shows. Certainly it had nothing to do with the fact that it was a wild, primitive animal loaded to the tits on mind altering drugs.

Good show!

Herod, in an attempt to save her victimized friend tried to pull her chimp off, but as Conklin noted, “Sandra is 70-years-old, and a 200lb chimpanzee is much, much stronger than a 200lb human being”. In other words, Herod had a better chance of lasting 3 rounds with a cage fighter than she did in defending her friend against an enraged chimpanzee.

Instead, Herod called police for help, grabbed a butcher knife and proceeded to stab her beloved hopped up Travis several times in the back, to little effect. She also tried hitting him with a shovel; but the monkey only stopped once police arrived and started pumping him full of lead after he had knocked off rear view mirrors and ripped off the door to a police cruiser in an attempt to get an officer.

“It was horrific what happened and I had to do what I had to do, but still, I’ll miss him for the rest of my life, “ Herod commented to authorities. “He couldn’t have been more like my son if I’d given birth to him,” she said. “Monkey’s are the closest thing to us. We can give them blood transfusions, they can give us one. We share DNA. How many people go crazy and kill other people?”

Apparently, Herod does not watch the news or read blogs belonging to yours truly.

She described the attack as a “freak thing” and said Travis might have mistaken her friend as an intruder and was just trying to protect her.

Yeah, right! Again – that’s just what the monkey wanted her to think. I believe that Travis was just bidding his time, surfing porn on the Intranet, and waiting for the right opportunity to run amok and picking Nash cleaner than Pavarotti’s chicken bones.

Well, I’m not buying it and I refuse to let my guard down. The writing was on the wall with those Senegalese chimps last year, and now this! How much before we accept that chimps are the new Taliban? Forget dressing them up in cute little hats and teaching them to use the Internet and Water Pik’s…hunt the furry fuckers down and snuff them out before it’s too late.

If we wait much longer it’ll be too late and they’ll have built themselves a nuclear arsenal in their own Manhattan Project and will be threatening to nuke us out of existence.

For the love of God, people – act now!

* In this case, it would seem that Travis finally lost his taste for the ‘Real Thing’ and instead acquired a taste for human flesh.

The Vegetarian Challenge

2009-01-24T05:58:00.000-08:00

Life is crazy. I’m absolutely convinced.

I have to otherwise I also have to admit by default that I am, in fact, crazy. And I’m not ready to admit that about myself yet; at least not now. So let’s just go with life itself is crazy, shall we?

In the meantime I’m going to attempt the impossible. No, I’m not going to take up being more politically correct or something lame ass thing like that*. I’m going to try and give up meat and go the way of vegetarian.

That’s right! The neighborhood squirrels are safe once again.

I must be out of my fucking mind. I haven’t gone off the deep end so much as I dove in myself headfirst shackled to a big rock. The day I ever included eggplant on my weekly grocery list, or ever planned to eat – much less, prepare – anything called “Pasta E Fagoli” is the day I wedged my toe into the trigger of a 20. Caliber shotgun. I mean, eating anything that has the word “fag” in it is just asking for trouble if you ask me. I think I’m already faggy enough as it is doing downward dog poses to Judge Judy and polishing my spin shoes before bedtime. What next? Going for a Brazilian ass waxing so I can look good in my new Speedo’s? Before you know it I’m buying yoga pants off a guy named ‘Chas’ down at the local Spiritual Healing Center.

God, just shoot me now!

The idea is to try and drop another 10-15 lbs without mercilessly killing myself on a treadmill or drowning at the bottom of the deep end. Whoever would have suspected that I would ever get this far? My “training”, as I liken to call it, has literally consumed me at this point. And triathlon training is no easy business let me tell you! In fact, it goes very similar to something like this: swim, pedal, run, lift, sweat, hydrate, eat, shit, sleep, repeat.

But what else do I have to do with my days exactly? I have the social life of a fruit fly. And I don’t know about any of you dear readers but, if you let your guard down for even moment you’re likely to end up seated in front of Jerry Springer with a pint of ice cream and a hot dog. So keeping busy is definitely a positive.

But anyhoo!

Now, it’s already well documented about my feelings and opinions on the subjects of vegetarianism, vegans, and especially my beloved meat. And here I am just a mere broccoli floret away from becoming one myself. It will be interesting to learn how long I’ll be able to go before I go totally berserk and end up stabbing someone with a spork; or how long before cats and dogs suddenly turn into little pork chops in collars running through the streets; or worse yet, how long before an enormous crater is all that remains of my city block after I erupt with an atomic-sized fart after eating too much spicy Indian Red Bean & Chick Pea Casserole.

If I was dangerous before I’m absolutely lethal now!

Mind you, the plan is to last for only a TWO WEEK period before I decide to commit to any further lifestyle changes. So, no, I haven’t completely turned by back on the Brotherhood of Meat Eaters. It’s not so much of a radical change in diet so much as it is a hit-and-run attack on vegetarianism itself. Think of me like an undercover carnivorous ninja sent to infiltrate the enemy compound and gather as much intelligence as I can and get the fuck out again. And if a few innocent vegan lettuceheads end up with their throats slit in the shadows – oh well.

It’s strictly business you understand.

Yeah, that sounds much cooler.

But really, what’s the worse that can happen? I could stand to lose a few more pounds anyway. It’s not like my muscles are going to completely wither way and die…Popeye ate spinach after all, right? And I know Olive Oil wasn’t much to look at but at least Popeye was getting laid; and that’s more than I can currently say! I know carnivorous chicks haven’t exactly been too cooperative with me, so maybe if I'm lucky enough there's a chance then that the vegetarian babes will be a little more, shall we say, accommodating? Perhaps the lack of complex animal proteins in their fragile hippy systems will makes them more susceptible to freaky monkey sex. Well, I can keep my fingers crossed anyway.

After all ninja’s have needs too**.

It’s not my place in the universe to criticize the miraculous mysteries of nature and the very evolution of mankind. Hey, if a minute, insignificant lack of a particular amino acid, or super complex Beta vitamin, or something strange like that should result in lower inhibitions among New Age single women between the ages of, say, 24 and 40…then good for Terry!

I’ll be on that water chestnut like cheese on a low-sodium Triscuit.

It’s good to be a vegetarian! Hallelujah!

* Don’t worry, folks, there will be lots of Downs Syndrome porno and Polish crack baby jokes to come in the near future!

** It’s ironic thought that I may actually have to seek out a vegetarian to actually gargle my beef stick…but hey, as I said before: life is crazy.

"On the Twelf Day of Christmas my true love gave to me Indigestion and a Colondectomy..."

2008-12-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

If there is one thing I am thankful for during this special time of year it’s for the opportunity to feast with reckless abandon at all the Holiday parties. After training hard straight through the summer and fall seasons I am finally going to be able to cut loose and gorge myself at the potluck table. My goal this Christmas is to have a little of absolutely everything that’s plopped down in front of my face; then go back for seconds.

Empty calories – here I come!

In fact, with this focus in mind, I’ve done my research and laid out a strict holiday regiment to make sure I achieve Maximum Density. Below are the particular rules I plan on observing this year in order to make sure I reap 100% of the rewards of said goal. If you’re wise, I’d advise you structure yourself a similar feasting plan to maximize your enjoyment this Holiday Season.

1. Avoid carrot sticks, celery sticks, raw cauliflower and broccoli. In fact, avoid vegetable and fruit trays altogether. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing about the spirit of giving. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately! Go next door to another neighbor’s party, where they're probably serving rum balls and leave the rabbits to their cornucopia of chow.

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can…and quickly! It's rare after all. You cannot find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-alcoholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. Attach it to an IV drip and spike it into your veins. It's Christmas!

3. a) If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat. Mound up a huge plate and roll around in it. Become one with the mashed potato.

3. b) As for the mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission. Anyone who makes mashed potatoes with skim milk is clearly not your friend. I like my mashed potatoes with the risk of triple by-pass surgery, thank you very much. Ho! Ho! Ho!

4. Do not have a snack – repeat: DO NOT snack - before going to any office parties or holiday functions in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it! Hello? And another thing, if they aren’t asking to call you an ambulance by the parties end, scratch them off your list for next year – the cheap bastards.

5. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. Doctors orders! You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. So eat your fill of pudding now as there will inevitably be lots of time to burn it off again come January 2nd. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog. If you’re feeling guilty, combat those feelings by putting on a Richard Simmons ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ video and help yourself to another slice of chocolate cake. Work through the pain.

6. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape of Santa or an elaborately crafted Gingerbread house, position yourself near it and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. If you notice you are being watched, step away briefly from the table until attention is averted elsewhere (hopefully, somebody else helping themselves to the rum balls by the fistful) and then sneak back for more. And so the dance continues.

7. Same for pies. Apple, Cherry, Pumpkin, Chocolate, Lemon, Mincemeat, whatever. Have a slice of each. Or if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have at least three slices. When else do you get to have more than just one dessert without feeling guilty? Christmas comes but only once a year! It’s Baby Jesus’ birthday for Pete’s sake. You’re celebrating! Are you going to turn down pie at Jesus’ birthday? I think not.

8. What’s that? Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the celebratory calories, but avoid at all cost. It’s just fruit masquerading as dessert. I mean have some standards. Unless, of course, you like eating on the toilet; but considering I don’t like to eat on the crapper, it’s just lost time if you ask me. If it will potentially keep me from my continuous feasting then I would avoid it like the plague. And when it comes to fruitcake it’s just too risky.

9. Invest in a pair of stretchy pliable party pants. Add this to your Christmas wish list for Santa if you need to. Like competing in any professional sport or performing any specific labor-intensive duty, you need the right tools and equipment to get the job done properly! Gorging is no different. Think of the valuable feasting time wasted or lost altogether because the waistband on your new Dockers is too restricting. Better yet, I suggest fashioning a crude toga out of your shower curtain and simply readjusting it each time you happen to add another couple of pounds.

10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or feel the irresistible urge to unbuckle your pants when you get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips 1-9; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

5 Things You May Not Want to Know About Me

2008-11-06T10:39:00.000-08:00

1. I like to be complimented – a lot!

That’s right, I like hearing about the things that others like or admire in me. But who doesn’t, right? Perhaps if we gave each other more compliments and not just consistently looking to give our “constructive criticism” every chance we get, the world would be a happier, less judgmental place and not everyone would be so reliant on their Prozac prescriptions. Tell me that you like my hair, or that I have a nice ass, or just about anything that could be considered as flattering and I’ll be your friend forever.

2. I’m vain.

Yep. I sneak peeks at my passing profile in store windows and check my hair in the rear view mirror of my car; I flex my biceps in the shower so I can poke approvingly at my muscles; and I even give myself the Full Monty from time to time whenever I happen to be changing in front of a full length mirror. Hey, if nobody is going to compliment me then I’ll find excuses to compliment myself, dammit!

3. I like the smell of my own farts.

In fact, I even rank them regularly on a scale of 1-10 in respect to their overall richness, meaty texture, as well as the degree of audible resonation they create. I take pride in my farts the way any craftsman takes pride in their handiwork. When it comes to emitting gaseous clouds of sulphury toxins I’m a regular Rembrandt, where the very air around us becomes my own personal canvas to paint upon …so to speak.

4. I love my crap television.

What can I say? Whether it’s Judge Judy, Myth Busters, any Reality Show, or even just a repeat of The Golden Girls, I just love watching my crap television shows. I don’t watch television to “learn stuff”. I want to feel some sort of penitence for wasting my time sitting on the couch staring mindlessly at the boob tube. Hell, if it’s informational or could be considered as educational in any way I’ll inevitably flip the channel quicker than a closet Conservative. I work hard enough as it is during the day that I don’t want to come home to watch any detailed episodes of CSI, House, or any of the tired Home Renovation bullshit that may require me to think. They’re too stressful and too thought-provoking. By the time I get home I just want to relax and let my brain switch off until it literally oozes out my ear.

5. I like country music.

Now let’s be very clear here: I don’t approve of that jangly cosmopolitan New Country nonsense you hear nowadays; I’m talking about the good ‘ol fashioned rhythmic twing-twang of Old Country. You know, back when country singers didn’t necessarily have to wear ten gallon hats to advertise themselves as a country-western star or feel the impulse to marry a struggling B-list actress. I’m talking about the good ‘ol days when country stars sung songs strictly about whiskey, loose women and the natural love that exists between a man and his horse. There was no Achy-Breaky Heart, no Boot Scootin’ Boogie’s, and especially no Cotton-Eyed Joe’s of any kind. Any country singer worth his chewing tobacco will have a serious drinking problem, been divorced about a dozen times and have at least one semi-autobiographical song about being in jail. Anyone missing any one of these criteria is just a country and western poser in my opinion.

Electoral Nightmare

2008-10-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve decided that I don’t like Election Day. In fact, I hate the whole voting thing altogether.

Now before you begin sharpening up your pitchforks and pre-lighting your pyres, it’s not the democratic system that I have the problem with it’s the whole elaborately detailed electoral process we are forced to go through in order to cast our votes.

C’mon, this isn’t Pakistan – this is Canada!

The whole “voters anxiety” thing begins for me the moment I walk into the public school auditorium where my local polling station is situated. Maybe it’s a reaction to some long forgotten memory of being gang-wedgied in the change room in Grade Four, or the harsh memory of having forgotten my lines in the Christmas play and pissing myself right there in that very auditorium. Whatever the case, the moment I pass through those front wooden doors of the auditorium I begin sweating like the pig that knows he’s dinner.

It’s like I’m walking through the revolving doors of some Old West saloon ready to confront trigger-happy banditos. Except as I enter, it’s pairs of gray-haired seniors wrapped in checkered shawls protectively hunched over their polling cards and suspiciously eying you in case you ever attempted to sneak at peak at anyone else’s ballot. Do not underestimate these harmless looking polling clerks; they’re part electoral officer, part ninja. They may look like residents at some retirement village but they’d sooner throw themselves on a grenade than ever risk exposing your vote to prying eyes.

And they take voting very seriously boy!

Don’t ever try to make small talk with them or attempt anything guised as humor. You can just tell by the way they look you up and down as you approach their polling booth that they’re sizing you up for potential weaknesses lest you should be thinking of committing some heinous act of terrorism. They’d puncture your juggler with their ballpoint and have you booked on the next flight back to Moscow before you hit the floor.

You’re here to vote, motherfucker…and don’t you forget it.

Then it gets a bit confusing.

After taking what seems like ages to locate your name on their polling list they hand you a card, a pencil, and shoo you away again over to another polling booth in the distance to cast your vote.

I, however, made the mistake of just trying to cast my vote right there at the table in front of them and judging by their reactions, this was akin to dousing myself in kerosene and setting myself on fire. Both polling officers recoiled in terror at almost having witnessed where I placed my ‘X’. One of them actually reached out quickly and snatched the pencil from my hand before my offending vote could ever be cast, oh the horror!

“You must cast your ballot behind that wall over there”, he explained. “We can’t ever be allowed to see your vote”.

Oh?

What would happen exactly if they somehow accidentally saw for whom you voted? Would they shrivel up and turn into dust like a vampire exposed to the sun? Would they be hauled away by government officials and sent to some remote electoral gulag in northern Greenland? Whatever, they seemed to be very animate that I must cast my vote behind a two-foot wall set up on a smaller table another 10 ft. away in the corner.

I ambled over behind the wall and without hesitation cast my vote. But not before attempting to engage the election officers in a quick game of peek-a-boo from behind my two-foot voting barricade…to no avail of course. I folded up my ballot as best I could and headed back to the polling station again feeling rather proud of myself* when I was informed that I had folded the ballot wrong.

Uh-oh.

Everything started to go all ‘Orange Alert’ very quickly. I started to panic and expected the storm troopers to begin rappelling in through the auditorium windows at any moment. Surely this was the last thing I would ever do as a member of the free world before being shipped off to Guantanamo.

Instead, the electoral officer gingerly took my ballot and unfolded it slowly and carefully with her head turned in the opposite direction the entire time. You’d think that there was a good chance that the ballot was going to blow up in her face if she happened to cast eyes on it. She then delicately refolded it and handed it back to me with a notable sigh of relief.

You’d think she’d just defused a bomb or something.

Look, lady…do you want my vote or an origami swan?

Anyway, I tucked it neatly into the ballot box where it disappeared for good much to the satisfaction of my electoral officers. As I left the premises I couldn’t help but feel that the whole process had seemed rather exaggerated and too shrouded in mystery. I think the election process should be simplified somewhat.

Forget all the secret ballot hocus-pocus let’s get more interactive. You could have all your riding candidates for each party lined up on stage and we, the voters, are invited to walk up and kick our chosen candidate square in the quiones where it’s recorded for all posterity by an electoral officer.

Why such a harsh voting method you ask? Well, two reasons actually. One: casting a vote by kicking your candidate in the Charlie Brown’s would serve as a warning and pertinent reminder to keep their campaign promises once elected. And two: anybody willing to be repetitively nailed in the junk really wants to be in politics, and not because it’ll help booster more t-shirts sales at the next clan rally.

It may be a tad medieval, but I believe it would work. It would certainly help get me out to the polling stations!

And who did I vote after all you ask?

Green. That’s who.

I figure that even if they only manage to save a few trees or preserve some a few extra acres of prime snowy owl habitat they may be just become the first party in recent Canadian Election history to ever keep one of their campaign promises.

* I almost flashed them my ballot just to see their reaction but I thought better of it.

Trunkspotting

2008-09-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

First it was chimps with sharpened sticks; then we taught them how to control robotic limbs. Combine this with the fact that we’ve also taught rats to use rakes and you’ll see that we’ve practically signed our own death warrants.

But just in case you need any further proof that the animal kingdom is clearly making a serious bid to dethrone mankind from the top of the food chain, consider these two late-breaking news stories:

“Black bears munchies lead to Utah grow-op”

Well, ho-lee shit!

Never mind Smokey the Bear, that’s all we need but some pothead bear wandering around the wilderness looking to score. It’s bad enough we have to put up with them at the city dump and raiding our camp sites n’ all but now we also have to worry about having them smoking our precious weed too.

At least Smokey the Bear had a purpose: to put out forest fires. I doubt very much that any stoner bear is going to lend much hand in preventing anything other than, maybe, glaucoma.

Investigators say a large black bear raided a clandestine marijuana growing operation so often that it chased the grower(s) away. Deputies found food containers ripped open and strewn about al over, along with claw marks and bear prints everywhere. All that was really missing from the scene was a water bong and a Nintendo Wii and you’d have the apartment of any respectable University drop out.

Point is; bears should not smoke the ganja. Despite the fact that it may make them too lazy to give chase or too lethargic to actually give a shit about anything at all, I still don’t support the giving of anything that might also lead to the enhancing of their appetites.

Bumping into a black bear is bad enough; never mind a black bear with the munchies! You’re just a walking Ding-Dong at that point. And that’s never going to end up well is it?

Before you know it the entire pyramid of earth’s inhabitants will be upset and we’ll have bears begging for loose change outside bus stations to support their habits.

But then again, maybe the problem of bears partaking has been around for much longer than we realize. After all, look at Yogi and Boo Boo.

Here are two of your classic stoner stereotypes: hungry, clumsy, forgetful, and then there’s that dopey slang in which they talk to each other, “isn’t that right, Boo Boo?” Yeah, sounds like hippy to me. Let’s not forget the fact that they are also so driven by the monkey on their back that they are reduced to stealing helpless camper’s picnic baskets.

We should have been taking notes all along.

What next you ask?

“Rehab stint cures elephant’s heroin addiction”

Yep, that’s right! You guessed it.

Apparently it’s true; marijuana is also a gateway drug for animals to move towards harder, more consequential drug use. One minute you’re raiding picnic baskets to satisfy your munchies and the next thing you know you’re a four ton elephant turning tricks in some Beijing alleyway in order to afford your next fix of smack.

Cue the Iggy Pop as it’s a Dumbo-turned-Trainspotting kind of plotline, when Xiguang, a four-year-old male Asian elephant, became addicted after he was captured by smugglers along the Chinese-Myanmar border in March 2005 who used heroin-laced bananas as a means of controlling him. Xiguang was found suffering from withdrawal after being released by the smugglers. When the poor beast was discovered, he was wearing a worn skirt and fuck-me boots while offering trunk jobs to passing tourists.

Much longer and he probably would have also had a #1 hit album a well.

So for the past three years, Xiguang has been given his daily methadone injections in doses five times larger than those given to us human junkies and now he’s a s clean as the new-fallen snow.

That’s awesome!

Picture the morning roll call at the next “Promises” celebrity rehab center: Brittany, Lindsay, Amy Winehouse, and a four ton Chinese elephant.

Boy, I’d love to be a fly-on-the-wall for that meeting.

Why do we tempt fate like this? First we give them weapons, then we teach them to use gardening implements, then we give them access to drugs.

Not smart!

We may as well just sign ourselves over as the supreme rulers of planet earth now. We’re just never going to learn are we?

And the animal apocolypse draws closer...

Getting the Goods on Gustov

2008-08-31T07:57:00.000-07:00

Just in case you’ve been spending this holiday weekend under a rock you know that it’s once again that wonderful magical time of season. That’s right, it’s...

...Hurricane Season!

It’s baaaaaaaaack.

This time the latest weather threat comes from Hurricane Gustov who was poised to slam into the Gulf Coast states on this fine Labor Day long weekend. Gustov has been tracked from day one on its path across the Gulf of Mexico and is currently ranked as a Category 3 hurricane by meteorologists and storm enthusiasts alike with the possibility of turning into a Category 4 or 5 hurricane later.

Oh yeah, baby!

What’s a Labor Day weekend without your 24 hour levee watch?

So it’s going to be nothing but swirling meteorological diagrams and wind swept beach lines on the boob tube for the next few days at ‘ol Chez Tigerrabbit. It’s become somewhat of a Labor Day tradition around my place over the last few years since Hurricane Katrina. There’s been Hurricane Ernesto, Dean, Felix, Humberto, Bertha, Dolly and most recently Charley. And of course there’s Hurricane Hanna and Ike still on the way yet.

I just loves me my late-breaking Labor Day hurricane updates

Yep. Labor Day without regular CNN hurricane updates is like Christmas without presents, Easter without colored eggs, or Halloween without tooth decay. Next to white socks and picnics, hurricanes are the very essence of Labor Day. In fact, Hurricane Reports have replaced the Jerry Lewis Telethon as the primary television broadcast of the holiday long weekend*.

And where’s Anderson Cooper you ask?

Why “Mr. 360” has already situated himself at ground zero in downtown New Orleans fighting the winds and the rain on the corner of Bourbon Street in order to bring his viewers an actual first hand experience of what it’s like to get blown around in 110 mph winds and soaked with torrential downpour.

Thanks for keeping it real, Anderson.

So with two days to go until landfall one has to wonder: has the good State of Louisiana done something specific to piss off Mother Nature? Did she get served a funky order of crawdad’s or something because she sure seems to have a serious hate on for these New Orleans folk like God has a hate on for the Boy Scouts.

The difference is that Hurricane Gustov, after all the hype it received from Thursday onward, came and went with all the fury of a wet fart. As far as hurricanes go – Gustov was a complete flop. Only the odd leaky levee and battered tree branch resulted after the storm hit landfall - hardly the stuff that decent disasters are made from.

But that didn’t stop FEMA from taking serious preemptive action in saving the good people of New Orleans from possible harm. It seems that FEMA has learned its lesson after Katrina in 2005.

PROTECT THE LEVIS AND DIAPERS AT ALL COST!

That’s right! Where New Orleans mayor Ray Nagrin encouraged people to flee the city last time, he all but kicked their asses out this time. Furthermore, he made it clear – to the people of the St. Bernard Parish in particular – that anyone caught looting in the streets this time would be automatically shipped to Angola State Penitentiary for immediate processing.

"You will not get a pass this time...you will go directly to Angola Prison and God bless you if you go there", Nagrin said matter-of-factly.

So the message that unless you like the idea of becoming the prison bitch for some guy named ‘Bubba’ in Cell Block D you’ll get your butt on one of those evacuation buses out of town.

Atta boy, Ray! Way to get in there, lay it down and kick some ass.

A world without Levi’s and Pampers is not a world worth living in.

But honestly, who is their right mind would ever be intimidated by anyone or anything named Gustov? Is this the best name they could come up with? If they really wanted to motivate people to leave the city and heed the danger warnings seriously they would have called it something like Hurricane Adolph, or Hurricane Bin Laden or something a little more mellow dramatic and threatening.

As it is, Hurricane Gustov sounds like some harmless migrant worker whose come to visit for the weekend.

* Although it is debatable over who blows more – Jerry Lewis or Hurricane Gustov.

Random Ponderisms

2008-08-29T11:05:00.000-07:00

It’s been a rather boring day today and so I have been passing the time browsing the Internet in search of some of the weirder, more bizarre factoids about life in general. After all, you never know when you might need to drop one of these informational tidbits at your next poker game gathering or around the water cooler at work.

Here is a selection of some of the more interesting ones I discovered.

1) A pig’s orgasm can last up to 30 minutes.

Wow, lucky swine! So apart from being extremely tasty with a honey-glaze and served with a side-order of home fries, pigs just may be the luckiest animal on the planet. I know if you give me half hour orgasms I would totally accept the risk of ending up as someone’s Easter feast.

2) The microwave was invented after a researcher walked by a radar tube and a chocolate bar melted in his pocket

This particular discovery eventually later led to the ever popular opening line: “Hey, is that a melted chocolate bar in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

3) The first known contraceptive was crocodile dung, used by the early Egyptians in 2000 B.C.

Well, duh? Who’d ever want to jump in the sack with someone with crocodile crap smeared on their schwantz? Very effect indeed, I’d say.

4) 5% of Canadians don’t know the first seven words of the Canadian national anthem, but know the first nine words of the American national anthem.

Why is this a statistic and why hasn’t anybody done anything about this yet? Deport these unpatriotic dipshits! If they love the American national anthem so much why don’t they go live there? Forbid them to eat back bacon or drink Molson products or something as some sort of punishment. At the very least, to take advantage of our free health care, a person should be made to recite the entire Canadian national anthem before receiving any medical treatment whatsoever.

5) A Saudi Arabian woman can divorce her husband if he doesn’t give her coffee.

How does that make any sense? Just imagine the repercussion here in North America if we ever bestowed our women the same kind of privilege. Men would practically become professional baristas upon marriage. Never mind marriage counseling, we’d instead be enrolled in night classes at Starbucks. First it’d be coffee; then maybe a Danish; eventually we’d be turned into subservient errand boys for our dominant females. Now I’ll do just about anything for sex but fetching coffee for the rest of my life doesn’t sound very enticing either.

6) Honeybees have hair on their eyes.

Just imagine how long it takes the female honeybee to get out of the bathroom before going out?

7) “Kemo Sabe” means “soggy shrub” in Navajo.

Makes you rethink what kind of relationship the Lone Ranger had with Tonto, doesn’t it?

8) The Sanskrit word for “war” means “desire for more cows”.

That also means then that Black Sabbath’s infamous rock anthem roughly translates to “Desire for More Cow Pigs”…not nearly as hardcore if you ask me.

9) When you’re born you you’re born with 300 bones, but when you get to be an adult, you only have 206.

Where do they go exactly? Is this another example of alien abductions or something? Very creepy!

10) Ambergris is the most expensive substance traded on the world market and is commonly used in the production of most expensive brands of perfume.

Just for the record: ambergris is the biliary secretion of a sperm whale. Consider that next time you drop a fortune on a bottle of ‘Eud d’ Whale Puke’ for your sweetheart next Valentine’s Day.

11) In Texas, it's against the law for anyone to have a pair of pliers in his or her possession.

Why? That’s pretty funny considering it’s perfectly legal for someone to carry a firearm instead. Personally, the pliers sound like the lesser of two evils. After all, what cashier is going to be intimidated by being held up with a pair of pliers? What’s the robber going to do – threaten to loosen all the bolts holding the counter together if they don’t immediately turn over all the money?

12) Sherlock Holmes NEVER said, "Elementary, my dear Watson."

More than likely, bing the A type personality he was, Holmes would have said something more along the lines of “get your head out of your ass, dipshit!” Conversely, Watson ever reply with, “No shit, Sherlock!”

13) Astronauts are not allowed to eat beans before they go into space because passing wind in a spacesuit damages them.

Ah, damages the suits or the astronauts? Because I can’t imagine spending a few days or a week enclosed in any air-tight zero gravity compartment with another gassy astronaut. How torturous would that be? Then again, given my current over-active metabolism I wouldn’t be able to eat – period! Just a single serving of broccoli would be enough o launch myself into orbit without the aid of a rocket. So I guess those childhood dreams of blasting off into outer space have been dashed once and for all.

14) It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the honey month, which we know today as the "honeymoon".

How awesome is that? Marriage would suddenly become a whole lot more inviting to me if the father-in-law were required to keep me drunk for a month afterwards. Of course, there would be no guarantee of what kind of performance I would give on my wedding night.

15) To "testify" was based on men in the Roman court swearing to a statement made by swearing on their testicles.

Imagine that. Here’s a practice we need to get back to! I’d say we’d have a better time trying hardened criminals if they knew they were liable to have their bollocks lopped off should they ever be found to be lying.

Phelp This!

2008-08-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

In the wake of Michael Phelps 8 gold medals in Beijing, the world public is now engaged in debate regarding the validity of this young swimming phenom’s recent Olympic success. How exactly does a 23-year-old man adapt himself so efficiently to the water and single-handedly smash so many world records? Does he have a legitimate gift for swimming or is he just some sort of genetic freak?

Either way, I’m just plum sick of hearing about it. I’d rather stick my dick into an angry beehive than deal with it anymore.

The media accounts goes on forever about his abnormally long torso, which, like the hull of a boat allows him to ride high on the water propelled by abnormally long, flexible arms and shoulders. Then there are his short, double-jointed knees and pliable ankles attached to monster size 14 feet which help him undulate like a marine mammal. And don’t even get me started on about his freakish wingspan which is about 3 inches longer than his 6-4 height.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, but can he balance a ball on his nose or jump through a hoop?

Honestly, are we talking about an Olympic caliber athlete here or some mutant half-man, half-fish hybrid for fuck sakes? Geez, throw in webbed toes and gills and you have yourself a prime candidate for someone you’d expect to find behind the red curtain at any carnival freak show. After watching all the ESPN bio coverage of the Olympic pool events in the Beijing Water Cube complex, it’s enough to make your head spin*.

Okay, so it’s a given that Michael Phelps may just be the love child between Aquaman and a bottlenose dolphin in a cooler, more streamlined swimsuit, but what really irks me is that people are also now attributing his success to the fact that he was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 9-years-old, and so, has more energy to burn than other average athletes.

What sense does that make?

Since when did being hyper disqualify someone from winning a gold medal? Even still, the whole “turning a potential tragedy into victory” is just too much to stomach.

It’s Lance’s balls all over again.

Shit, if Lance Armstrong is a super human then Michael Phelps must be a direct descendent of Atlantis or something. But at least Phelps hasn’t started any new rubber bracelet trends – yet.

But anyway, to his defense, the fact that little Michael couldn’t focus his attention long enough to last an entire episode of Scooby Doo without tossing the family cat into the microwave is kind of irrelevant now isn’t it? I say ‘Bravo!’ for his mother Deborah for getting him involved in something constructive in order to help focus his attention, but do we have to continually hear about it?

If I were given the choice of spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid in my lap or weathering another report about Michael Phelps athletic anomalies I’d take the hydrochloric acid as that would be less painful.

Shit, I was a bit hyper as a child too but it didn’t automatically qualify me as an Olympic champion. Then again, the true physical prowess and extreme athleticism of chronic masturbating was never fully appreciated by the Olympic Committee.

Oh well, “C’est la vie!”

I could’ve been a contender too!

But this is only where the whole Michael Phelps ball of wax begins. There is also the whole business aspect to consider as well. Fish Boy is now on target to being the biggest and most popular Olympic athlete ever as far as advertisement and endorsement deals go. He stands to rival America’s leotard-clad sweetheart Mary Lou Retton for future celebrity status. And ‘ol Mary Lou only won one Olympic gold medal in her 1984 Olympic outing – not eight!

Big businesses are already lined up to literally hand over the cash – and pizza - to America’s new superstar. Phelps has received top endorsements from companies like Visa, Speedo, Omega, Hilton, and AT&T. On Facebook, more than 795,000 people have officially declared themselves fans of Michael Phelps – that’s nearly a cult status if you ask me. From there, he’s only a short dolphin kick away from being the next idiot to jump up and down on Oprah’s couch and oh, by the way, don’t forget to have some of the purple Kool-Aid.

There are entire websites dedicated to debating over whether Michael Phelps has a girlfriend or not. Huh? Who cares? Well even if he doesn’t, after the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games he’ll inevitably have more girlfriends than MacDonald’s will serve customers.

In fact, Phelps’ business agent Peter Carlisle estimates that Michael could expect to make anywhere between $3 million and $5 million this year and then doubling with each subsequent gold medal. All in all he be worth as much as 100 million dollars over the course of his lifetime in product endorsements alone.

Not bad for a hyperactive aquatic mutant from Baltimore.

Kellogg’s is also planning on putting Michael onto there boxes of Frosted Flakes and Corn Flakes. I wonder how Tony the Tiger feels about this development. Suddenly Tony isn’t good enough for the legions of young American Olympic hopefuls? Who decided exactly that a long-armed, simian-fish mutant of a man is going to sell breakfast cereal?

That’d turn me onto oatmeal faster than you could say “There’re great!”

Yep, Michael can do no wrong these days. He could create an alternative fuel out of puppies and the world would line-up into 2012 for a chance to purchase some.

Well, not this guy! I’m too busy perving over the women’s beach volleyball to give a second consideration to the whole Phelps juggernaut. He can take his free pizza and shove it up his ass for all I care.

* Except of course, that fish can’t turn their heads - take that Fish Boy!

Seven More Deadly Sins

2008-07-14T07:09:00.000-07:00

Way back in the 6th century, Pope Gregory handed down a list of "seven cardinal vices” from his lofty Vatican throne. These vices would then live on throughout Christendom as the infamous “Seven Deadly Sins”. The Church would continue to utilize this list in order to properly outline a strict classification system of vices to better educate and instruct early Christian followers on the fallen man's tendency to sin.

Yeah, yeah, whatever; it also meant the end of anything that could ever be considered “fun” for Catholics everywhere.

Any pious Catholic - not to mention any respectable Kung Fu aficionado - knows this list by heart already. But for those of you without a soul here’s a little refresher:

Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride.

Remember those old chestnuts?

Shit, throw in ‘Resisting Arrest’ and ‘Defecating In A Public Fountain’ and that’s my average Saturday night!

For whatever reasons these original Granddaddy’s of Evil remained pretty much intact and unedited by the Vatican for nearly 1400 years. That’s pretty impressive actually. Of course, they were originally stolen anyway from the Greek monastic Evagrius of Pontus who listed eight offences and wicked human passions in an order of increasing seriousness, but who hasn’t stolen from the Greeks at one point or another am I right?

So on with the story; fast forward to 2008:

The Vatican has once again reissued their list of Seven Deadly Sins with one notably difference: there are now FOURTEEN deadly sins.

Rwoh-oh!

That can’t be good.

It seems that the Vatican has now decided to unveil a list of new and improved deadly sins for our modern 21st century world, or “New Sins for a New Century”, as they so eloquently put it. Now, apart from the fact that it’s only a mere eight years too late as it is, why fuck up a perfectly good list now?

Why fuck with tradition - particularly God’s tradition?

That some serious tradition! It even makes things like running with the bulls in Spain, slipping a whoopee cushion under someone’s ass in early April, or even the Olympics themselves every four years seem like random pissing contests.

This is fucking sin we’re talking about here.

So listen up people!

I’m about to once again save your poor, pathetic excuse for an existence from ending up roasting alive in Purgatory for evermore once fate decides its time to shuffle off this mortal coil once and for all.

Lets take a look our revamped list of new millennium no-nos, shall we?

Now, besides the original seven, in order to be admitted beyond the Pearly Gates of St. Peter you must also abide by these additional holy nuggets sent forth to address to the "decreasing sense of sin" in our modern world: genetic modification, human experimentation, polluting the environment, social injustice, creating poverty, excessive wealth, and taking or selling drugs.

I guess I’m currently riding first class on the express train to Satansville - how about you?

First of all, I’m guessing that means no more growing cocks on the back of mere cats in hidden genetic laboratories. Which also means that my dreams of one day farming a monster 13’ schlong to be surgically grafted to my groinal area has also been dashed forever.

Archbishop Gianfranco Girotti, the Vatican's number-two official for sins and penance – known as the ‘Apostolic Penitentiary’ - told L'Osservatore Romano that he saw bioethics as posing the greatest risks for the human soul.

By “bioethics”, Girotti means birth control. You’d think that after centuries of plight and plague - not to mention the world’s growing hunger problem - that the Church would have loosened up on it’s whole anti-condom stance…but I digress.

"(Within bioethics) there are areas where we absolutely must denounce some violations of the fundamental rights of human nature through experiments and genetic manipulation whose outcome is difficult to predict and control," he told the Vatican's official newspaper on Sunday.

The Roman Catholic Church has of course spoken out in the past about it’s hate on* for stem cell research as they believe that all conception can only result in the sloppy ending of a good rodgering.

Call them old fashioned.

So much for curing cancer or genetic birth defects, all biogeneticists are going to Hell in a collective hand basket. Now, I love ‘The Nature of Things’ as much as the next guy, but who in their right mind would ever want to spend eternity with David Suzuki?

And what’s with the human experimentation? Did somebody leave the Space Channel on at the Vatican or something? But then again what’s life without a little ritual dissection amongst friends, right?

I suppose we’ll always have Gillett to fall back on. It may just be the grinding out of lit cigarettes into the eyeballs of innocent baby bunnies but I’ll take whatever fun I can get in this mad, cruel world.

Also interesting to note, is that the Church has also started to target lending assistance to the “widening divide between rich and poor”, as well as personally striving to achieve excessive wealth.

Umm, I hate to be the naysayer here but isn’t the Vatican itself worth an estimated 50 billion dollars? I’d really be interested in knowing what they deem to be “excessive” then.

Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle just a bit black?

The Church has not only the power to significantly aid world poverty but to actually kick world poverty’s ass once and for all! But yet, I’m going straight to Hell if I don’t immediately drop my change in the ‘Take A Penny, Leave A Penny’ jar on store counters.

Maybe if the Church were to melt down some holy relics in order to finance the rebuilding of Banda Ache or to construct badly needed irrigation systems in Central Ethiopia and I might just give this ridiculous notion a second thought.

Until then, I’m keeping my pennies.

Surprisingly, the Vatican continues on with its “Go Green” platform in its new list by declaring the polluting of the environment to be a sin.

Boy, I’d hate to be the CEO of Tim Horton’s Inc. right now. That son of a bitch is going to burn for sure!

But I can get behind and support this new pollution sin for sure. I already wish sudden death on those people I see tossing Burger King wrappers or smoldering cigarette butts out their windows while driving down the Interstate. It’s about time we waged holy Jihad on these ass baskets. Pitching one crumpled up burger wrapper or empty coffee cup anywhere but in a waste can, should be equitable to hard time in some Old Testament style penitence.

And never mind being tossed into a pit of snakes, boiled alive in oil, smothered in brimstone, being dismembered, broken on any wheel, or being forced to eat rats and toads, or any of the other traditional old school penitence cures. I’m talking about introducing some new school beat downs. Something even more ghastly than anything your typical harsh Biblical mind could conjure up. Something like being forced to watch ‘Golden Girl’ reruns, or having your genitalia lashed to the bumper of a Humvee.

And as far as the drug abuse part goes, well, considering the kind of world I’d be living in, given the avoidance of all these dangerous new social sins, I’ll just have to take a Mulligan on this one.

The real funny part is that the Vatican has only now re-released this list in response to a survey that shows that 60 per cent less Catholics in Italy go to confession regularly. Too boot, Archbishop Girotti also complained about the increasing numbers of people in the secularized West were “making do without God”.

Hey, no offence there bud, but given that just about everything I do from the time I step outside my front door is somehow going to have me immediately teleported directly into the seventh level of Dante’s Inferno, why wouldn’t I want to check out what the fat, bald dude is laughing about?

“Know what I mean there, Vern?”

I’m just a simple guy. I like my steaks bloody, my movies full of explosions and gratuitous sex, and I like to hit the pipe like an OG Gangsta before I settle down to watch me some Discovery Channel. After all, life can’t be all stain-released and wrinkle-resistant can it?

Shit no!

A world without weed, genetic cock farms, or human experimentation is a world I don’t want to live in!

* As they do for most things.

The Curse of the Boy Scouts Renews

2008-06-15T19:42:00.000-07:00

(This post was made against the good advise of my girlfriend. But I'm posting it anyway. I just have to believe that out there somewhere there is at least one person who has thought along similar lines. So this one is for you - you poor, sick bastard you.)

Coming in the wake of a particularly violent season of severe storms and irregular freak weather, a veritable meteorological coup-de-tat of tragedy befell the small town of Little Sioux, Iowa last week. If God had a hate-on for the Boy Scouts before, he sure as shit has one now! What he didn’t finish back in June 2005 he made up for three years later in 2008.

Add four more to the count. That's God nine; Boy Scouts zilch

On Wednesday, June 14^th at 6:30pm CST, a tornado touched ground in the Little Sioux Scout Camp where 120 people, including 93 kids aged 13-16 were participating in a special Leadership camp. Four scouts were killed and dozens more injured.

The approaching storm cell was just about completely hidden away from the unsuspecting scouts by the surrounding hills and it is doubtful that any real advance notice was given at all. Although two warnings were issued minutes before the tornado struck they were probably drowned out by vigorous rounds of Kumbaya. All in all, nearly 1,800 acres of property was virtually destroyed by the deadly tornado, including a few cabins and most of the tents and trees.

Pretty horrific, eh?

So am I going to have fun, anyway?

You bet your sweet bippy.

The CNN ghouls, lead by Anderson Cooper of course, could barely contain their glee as they repeatedly described all the horrific details of the calamity for the media cameras. At first, they weren’t certain that the storm was in fact an actual tornado and so instead described it as a “Big Wind Event”.

Nice.

A “Big Wind Event” sounds like the perfect name for an Olympic style farting competition if you ask me.

They would then later go on to describe 2008 so far as the most “tornadic” year ever”.

WTF?

What the hell does that mean? Is that even a word? While we’re at it, why not start dropping other such hip vernacular chestnuts as ‘tornadoful’, ‘tornadoriffic’, or even ‘tornadolicious’? How cool does that make tornados sound? Almost makes me want to pack up my flimsy nylon tent and head off for Tornado Alley.

Almost…except I have my merit badge in ‘Common Sense’ that is.

So pardon me for asking, but where exactly in the Scouting Handbook does it say that it’s okay to go tent camping in the height of tornado season? In fact, lets just leave all communication instruments behind and gaily jaunt off into a dangerous storm cell with our Colemans.

Good thinking.

Officials were saying that they didn’t really have way of knowing if there were other people in the park and so they were going to continue treating the situation as a search-and-rescue operation. Scouts must have been literally sticking out of tree trunks after they impacted with them headfirst at 300 m/ph. Some kids took refuge in ditches, and some others were buried underneath a collapsed chimney in one of the cabins.

“It ripped all the doors open and my ears popped a couple of times and then all of a sudden the next thing I know the walls and the roof are just totally gone and the chimney and the building fell over on top of some kids and sent one table flying which hit me on the back”, said 15 year-old staff member Rob Logsdon.

He also tells “we were sitting there watching lightning…and we saw it [the tornado] come around the end of a bluff toward the entrance to the camp”.

So much for “Always Be Prepared”.

As God’s bullet zeroed in on the helpless Boy Scouts, an adult leader ordered everyone to get under the picnic tables.

Good job, dipshit. Get under a few painted planks of 2 x 4’s.

But then again, a few square feet of mere canvas tarp stretched between four thin, aluminum tenting-poles doesn’t offer much protection from the super-powerful winds either, does it?

These kids were screwed right from the start.

Yep, I’d sure think twice about venturing out for camps of any sort if I were a Boy Scout. If it’s not lightning or stupidity, there’s also a good chance that a sneaky killer tornado is going to you.

Shit, I’d rather become a Girl Guide!

Not many severe storm warnings, or tragedies for that matter, are registered on people’s front porches while peddling confection cookies. Seems a lot less risky to me.

The same storm cell that spawned the ‘Scout Buster’ in Iowa also struck other locations in the Midwest causing severe flooding and literally leveling several other communities. It terrorized the Kansas State University’s campus damaging several engineering and science buildings including a wind erosion lab*, as well as tore the roof off a fraternity house in Manhattan…and not in the good way either!

That’s a pretty big-ass storm, eh?

'Ol God must really must have wanted to finish it off this time; leaving no fabricated building or dwelling unturned in his effort.

* How’s that for ironic?

Breakfast At Lucifer's

2008-05-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

I had the unfortunate experience this morning of having a bowl of Alpen cereal and let me tell you: YUCK!

I had originally settled on this particular brand of breakfast cereal as it advertised itself on the shelf as a “naturally delicious Swiss style cereal”. Who doesn’t love the Swiss, right? But as it turns out, the only thing “naturally delicious” about this Alpen cereal was the box it came in. I understand that the Swiss are already notorious world round for their yummy chocolate, buxom swimsuit models, reliable time pieces, handy utility knives, and tax evasion, but what a surprise to learn that the Swiss also renown for eating pure evil for breakfast too.

I was originally lured in to this lie by the promise of whole grain, high fiber, low fat, no preservatives and no added salt. What can I say? It must have been all the vegetables in my system that was making me act all naïve and impulsive. But whoever knew this was also the same formula for spoiled ass?

Seriously, this “Original Alpen” breakfast cereal tastes like shit. I guess that’s just the price you pay in Switzerland for being blonde, beautiful, and neutral. Even more intriguing was 'The Whole Grain Story' printed on the back of the box. Surely, given the nastiness contained within, ‘Revelations’ might have been more appropriate.

But I digress.

The story begins: “Recent scientific studies have confirmed what our ancestors already know generations ago: diets rich in whole grains play a major role in helping us to stay healthy.”

Sadly, what those same scientific studies didn’t tell you was that whole grains, to eat, are about as enjoyable as eating day old cat vomit. After about two spoonfuls my mouth was about as dry as a popcorn fart. You’d think that our ancestors existing all those generations ago might also have remembered to pass along that useful tidbit of information wouldn’t you?

I’m really beginning to distrust these neutral bastards!

But our whole grain story continues: “Over time, the mass manufacture and refining of cereals meant that only one or two parts of the grain might be present in the final cereal product even though it is the presence of each part of the grain – bran, germ, and endosperm – working together that provides the greatest health benefits.”

I have no idea what any of that means exactly, but did they just say ‘sperm’? Now if that doesn’t put you off your Alpen in the morning I don’t know what fucking will! Personally, I don’t want to eat anything that has sperm - anything – in it and I don’t care what health benefits are in it for me. It could give me super human powers and I still wouldn’t touch the shit!

HELL, NO!

I’m really starting to wonder about the Swiss. I’m even beginning to rethink this whole chocolate thing as well. I mean, ‘what if’?

But back to my box of ass.

‘The Whole Grain Story’ wraps up by telling us “the benefits of whole grain products and their role in the prevention of heart disease, certain cancers, obesity, and Type II diabetes. Expert dietary sources such as Canada’s Food Guide to Healthy Eating recommend 5-12 servings of grain products daily. We hope that you will continue to enjoy the health benefits of Alpen as well as its great taste and traditional old-fashioned goodness”.

Holy shit!

I could barely manage two small mouthfuls and now I learn I’m supposed to have 5-12 servings of this crap?

Fuck that!

Who needs healthy that badly?

The good news in all this is that each ½ cup worth of this vile foulness is only 170 calories – the same exact number of calories you’d burn racing to the bathroom in order to yak up your Alpen.

Yay.

The Gym Commandments

2008-04-28T18:20:00.000-07:00

So now that I've become a self-professed gym snob I thought I'd tackle the ultimate taboo topic: the unspoken laws of the gym.

I've come along way since squeaking out mistimed farts way back in the days of yore. But since then I've watched; I've listened; I've learned. I think I've managed to get a pretty firm grasp on this whole social gym etiquette thing. While it's perfectly acceptable to sweat, grunt, and make animal-like faces - it's no reason to forget your manners. After all, you cram groups of sweaty, smelly people together in confined places equipped with pieces of blunt iron and you're bound to have problems sooner or later!

Of course, there are the mandatory ‘Do's and Don'ts’ notices posted everywhere around the gym; but honestly, who fucking reads these things? It's the 'Law of the Jungle', baby. It's mostly an unwritten Code of Conduct amongst us dedicated gym-goers in my opinion. All violators to the accepted norm are subject to scorn and ridicule until they either fucking learn, or meet their demise in a good 'ol fashioned cell block-style beat down.

Consider these your basic gym-goers Commandments.

1) The mirror belongs to the person in it!

Personally, I love watching a little hot me-on-me action while I work out. Cutting between a lifter and their mirror is like coming between a mother Grizzly Bear and her cub. Anyone stupid or inconsiderate enough to stroll in front of my mirror while I'm basking in my own maleness is liable to end up with a dumb bell wedged in their ear.

"Hey Maverick, how about doing your fly’s in someone else's No Fly Zone? I'm here to look at myself thank you, not your sweaty ass."

2) Farts happen...deal with it.

It's just the way it is. Just think of it as an occupational hazard. Considering the considerable pressures that you're exerting on your body - often in awkward and unusual positions - the odd eruption is going to emit itself eventually. And your ass is as good an orifice as any.

That is not free reign however to drop bombs willy-nilly for the whole duration of your workout. The general fart rule of thumb goes thusly: laugh, shrug your shoulders, smile sheepishly, and get back to work you poor, sick, demented bastard. Just accept our temporary disapproving glances for the time being. Yep, just stand there and take it like a Frenchman. Shortly, some other inconsiderate halfwit will let one rip and then you can join us in scowling at him/her. And then all will be forgiven. And contrary to some of the uncouth gasbags you hear working out, it is not acceptable to rear back a cheek and squeak out a second. That's un-fucking-forgivable. You should be plugged with the business end of a barbell before you euphemize the rest of us.

3) The right to grunt and growl is directly proportional to the weight being lifted.

It's basic algebra for the weight room. There are strict conditions for grunting: a) when lifting weights more than your own body weight, b) a lift close to your breaking point, or c) the last rep of your set. Otherwise, you are not Maria Sharapova, dipshit! You are not practicing for a hog calling contest - so shut the fuck up and train!

4) The person who wants your advice is the one who asks for it.

This rule exists largely because its usually the people who shouldn’t be giving work out tips in the first place that feel compelled to share their opinions. At least they flock to me like moths to a blue light. I view these people in much the same light as I do about fat people offering me dieting advice, or single people who offer relationship counseling. Seriously, you put some people in gym shorts and suddenly their Lou Ferigno. Why would I ever accept leg exercise tips from a guy who looks like Nicole Ritchie running away from a cheese steak while jogging on the treadmill?

“Keep it to yourself, doughboy!”

I keep myself to myself while I’m at the gym. I’m there for me and me alone and if I have to learn things the hard way sometimes – so be it. You don’t tell me how to do my work out and I won’t crush your head between two 50 lb plates. Capeesh?

5) Thou shalt not disturb your neighbor.

Once someone is in motion during their work out do not, under any circumstances, pester them with “how many sets you got left?” When I’m still working myself through my set I’m not thinking about anything else but what’s about to rip out of it’s socket. A person needs to focus and concentrate when they’re working out and they can’t do that with some tool in a sweaty ‘Foreigner’ t-shirt bugging them with stupid-ass questions. You know when I’m done? When I either return my weights to the rack or when I embed them in your skull – that’s when!

These types of questions should never be answered verbally. I usually just cast an ‘I’m going to kick your ass’ glare at them and continue on with what I’m doing…only slower.

6) Mark your territory.

Leaving a water bottle and a towel bench is as good as pissing on it to mark your territory. Without a water bottle, a towel or a bench you don’t have a recognizable work out station. If it fails the three-point check with even one element missing it’s fair game. Plunder away!

7) Clean up after yourself.

In any other bastion of civilized society when you drop your bodily fluids - you wipe! The gym is no different. People who fail to wipe up their sweat from a bench when they’re finished piss me off particularly. I am instantly driven to play ‘Heart and Soul’ on their spinal column with a pair of dumb bells.

How fucking gross is that? There is nothing worse than sitting down in a warm pool of someone else’s fluvia thank you very much! I’d rather lick the floor tiles at Swiss Chalet.

8 i) Lycra: it’s a privilege not a right!

There should be qualifying guidelines for wearing spandex, Lycra, or any other stretchy, huggy work out clothing. Maybe a stand up ‘You Must Be This Fit’ sign like the kinds you see at carnival rides.

Nothing puts you off your work out quicker than your classic Lycra train wreck. The way their pink flesh spills out from the gaps in their Lycra bodysuit makes them look like some kind of walking Playdoh Fun Factory. Now, in all fairness, to say that I’m fashionable would be an insult to bowling shoes everywhere, but honestly – look in the fucking mirror people!

8 ii) Never exceed the three-hole limit on your t-shirt.

If theres more than three holes, it’s not a t-shirt anymore – it’s a rag. Use it to buff your car no to work out in. I don’t go to the gym to witness patches of weird bodily hair peeking out from the multiple holes in your muscle shirt, thanks. Throw it out!

If it’s really such a valuable family heirloom that you can’t bring yourself dispose of, wear it in the comforts and privacy of your won home along with your secret pair of high heels and lace panties, there, princess. Oh yeah, and absolutely no headbands! The 80’s are over, Kareem. Deal with it.

9) If you’re huge enough to press it, you’re huge enough to put it away.

This is my ultimate pet peeve at the gym. There’s nothing worse than having my work out evolve into a scavenger hunt because some grobulous knob is too fucking lazy to put their weights back when they’re finished. These morons deserve to be kicked in the jewels.

“Hey, dipshits! Know why you go to the gym in the first place? EXERCISE!”

It absolutely amazes me that people who think nothing of pressing the equivalent of a minibus is also too fucking pussy to return his weights to the rack only 5 ft. away. Consider it like an added bonus work out, numb nuts.

10) Similar to Rule #3, keep it down!

I know it’s not a library or anything but do people really have to make all these slamming and crashing noises? It’s a tad bit attention seeking if you ask me. If you’re also too pussy to lower your weights slowly to the ground after your set you’re too pussy to lift weights.

"Go home to your Richard Simmons videos, you Judy!"

What goes through these guy’s heads? Usually a sudden loud racket means the same as it does everywhere else: you’ve fucked up. Thanks for advertising it.

11) Leave your cell at home or in the locker.

Why in the hell would you ever want to bring a world of distraction into your exercise routine? Kind of defeats the whole point of being there doesn’t it? There is noting worse than working out beside someone discussing flavors of toothpaste, or making kissy noises to his girlfriend over his cell phone. These morons should be banned altogether or be subject to ‘Judgment by Thunderdome’ from the rest of us.

12) The water fountain is not for tossing your gum.

Likewise, there is nothing worse than dying of thirst while waiting for some moolyak to fill their huge keg-sized water bottle, particularly if there’s a mountain of pink gum wads there waiting for you.

13) Just because you have the bodily girth of a polar bear doesn’t automatically give you the right to monopolize all the machines.

And while we’re on the topic of monopolizing the machines don’t conduct your social hour between your sets with everyone that walks by either. Some of us are waiting to use those machines today at some point, Hulk.

Instead, let someone work in with you to speed the routine up for everyone, or at least hold your conversation to a minute or two between your sets. This is not Happy Hour you know. It totally sucks having your muscles melt away to paste while some idiot cheerfully discusses his plans for a Wednesday night with someone he hasn’t seen or spoken to in 12 years.

“Hey, I’m happy you managed to get reacquainted with someone whom obviously completes you so fully, but some of us want to work out here! Can you conduct your debriefing and social calendar somewhere else?”

14) Keep your eyes to yourself, pervo!

Staring blatantly at some honey on the treadmill is like staring at the sun – you can look but only in short bursts or you’ll be blind to the beefy boyfriend beside you preparing to bludgeon you to death with his dumb bell.

15) Lastly, while changing in the locker room, the space you take is proportional to the width of your locker (not your ego) – particularly when it’s busy.

I mean how much friggin’ space do you need to dry your ass and put on a clean pair of clothes? You will see people who spread themselves over the entire changing area as if they were getting prepared for a picnic. Why do they need so much space?

But there’s an important addendum to this final commandment as well. If there is adequate room available in the change room it is not recommended you use the locker immediately next to the only guy in there changing…unless you’re a total fag that is.

This behavior is just so strange. Are they so obsessive compulsive that they just have to use one particular locker even if it means wedging themselves in between two other wet, naked dudes when there are, like, another hundred or so empty available lockers around…with space to spare!

Whatever the case, such an unnecessary and unwelcome infringement on one’s territorial boundaries deserves a vicious towel snapping in return.

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

2008-04-20T06:44:00.000-07:00

Just in case you have just about given up on yourself altogether and have considered ending it all, consider this first: Kansas City authorities were called out to the home of a 37-year-old Kory McFarren to - get this – have his girlfriend, 35-year-old Pam Babcock removed from his bathroom, where she had apparently spent the last two years!

I guess Mr. McFadden finely got tired of waiting to use his can, huh?

And rightly-fucking-so! I begin to get pissy when my girlfriend spends more than 10 minutes in there doing whatever it is that girls do in there – but two fucking years? That’s just bloody ridiculous! I’d say after being denied the right to use his own bathroom for 24 straight months*, Mr. McFadden had demonstrated patience and self-control far beyond that of any reasonable limit.

First of all, as far as boyfriends go this guy is a saint! Secondly; he must have been pretty fucking desperate to waited so long that the skin of his cock tease girlfriend had actually grown around the toilet seat itself. Babcock had sat for so long that open sores developed and caused her to become attached to the seat. Is that some sexy shit or what? Authorities spent nearly two hours prying the toilet seat off with a pry bar before she was taken to the local hospital – with the seat still stuck to her ass no less.

Fuck me!

That’s pretty goddamn desperate if you’re willing to wait 17,520 hours to fuck a chick with a toilet seat fused to her ass don't you think?. I’d rather work as a shark moil than fuck some crazy bitch with a toilet seat attached to her ass. Somebody get this poor bastard a prostitute already.
McFadden regularly took her water and meals and repeatedly asked her to come out, to which Babcock would reply: “maybe tomorrow”.

Still thinking of ending it all are ya? At least you haven’t spent the last two years on the hopper!
The real tragedy in all this is that Mr. McFadden is now being charged by the Ness County District Court. For what…blue balls?!

The 36-year-old antique store dealer insists that the odd arrangement simply evolved over time and it got to the point where he no longer thought of it as strange.

Okay, I too find this a little hard to believe and so loose a little respect for this pathetic schmutz. Getting down on your knees and howling at the full moon is a “little strange”; the artist-formerly-known-as-Prince is a "little strange”; Elvis impersonators are a “little strange”; the ending to Contact was more than a “little strange”; but sitting, eating, bathing, and sleeping in your shitter for two years is just fucking nuts, pal!

This crazy bitch has spent more time in bathrooms than George Michael.

Wake up already.

“It just kind of happened one day; she went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was just a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay – like it was a safe place for her“, Mc. Fadden offered as his only defense.

The woman was reported to have had a traumatic childhood after her mother died when she was still a little girl. A neighbor recalls she was always kept inside her home and was always rarely allowed to go outside. So clearly the girl was already a runaway freight train to Crazytown as it was. But still, the local sheriff plans to charge McFadden with mistreatment of a dependant adult.

Although Babcock is now in fair condition in a Wichita hospital, the nerve damage in her legs may now leave her crippled in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. McFadden maintains “she is an adult; she made her own decision. I should have gotten help for her sooner; I’ll admit that. But after a while, you kind of get used to it”.

Once again, dude; one gets used to Latin music, shitty weather, or Ethiopian cuisine – not a girlfriend living in your bathroom for two full calendar years! The only thing McFadden is guilty of is being stupid. This guy makes Gary Busey look well adjusted.

The court offered authorities have offered that “neither of the duo appears to be in their right mind, and it all might be that its just an unfortunate arrangement among two people with diminished capabilities”.

Duh. Do ya think?

These two are about as sharp as wet mice. But what’s the point of charging McFadden exactly? Is he stupid? Absolutely! Horny? Fuck yes. So take him out; let him have a nice, long, undisturbed dump in privacy, get him laid, then turn him loose for the helpless moron he is.

There. Aren’t you glad I stopped you from feeling like a total loser?

You’re welcome.

* Which leads one to wonder where exactly Mr. McFadden did go to the bathroom?

Academy Award Post-thoughts:

2008-03-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

So, it’s only been - what - three weeks since the whole Academy Awards ceremony? And I am only finding out about them now. How did I manage to miss that little cultural tidbit while living under my rock?

I guess the fact that I’ve only seen three movies all year suggests that I’m just a little out of sync with this year’s popular cinema (and I doubt that Cloverfield will be up for any Academy’s either).

Now, bear in mind that I have seen absolutely none of these movies and in some cases, never even heard of them, but let’s take a look at the crop of Oscar-worthy hopefuls this year:

Atonement – I didn’t realize that this movie had made it out to theaters yet. I do know that my girlfriend has been reading this on the treadmill at the gym lately, and judging by the cover of the book I’m not sure it’s the kind of movie I’d enjoy. Looks pretty “girly” if you ask me. The movie revolves around sister’s Briany and Cecilia Tallis and their house keepers son, Robbie. See what I mean? Pussy!

Now I don’t suspect that there is any hot three-way action where the Tallis sisters use poor Robbie like an Olympic pummel horse, so I’m not so sure I’m too terribly interested in this flick. I can already feel my Charlie Brown’s shriveling just imaging this movie.

This world needs another losing of innocence movie like it needs another White Ford Bronco chase.

Michael Clayton – This flick is in my ‘never heard of it’ category this year. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s never trust a movie titled after it’s central character: Bridget Jones Diary, Norbert, umm, Dr. Doolittle…see what I mean?

Okay, okay, I know that there are also great films like Bull Durham, Jerry McGwire, Bob Jones, Rob Roy, and Rocky that were also named after their central characters. But this movie was made by the same guy who did Tootsie…need I say more?

It’s a movie about lawyers starring George Clooney as this Michael Clayton asshole. C’mon, you just know this is going to suck. We’ve seen this all before: scrupleless lawyers squabbling and scheming over multi-billion dollar contracts. It’s mergers, conflicts, screwjobs, and bullshit legal mumbo-jumbo galore! Somebody just stab me already.

I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a broken pool cue than watch this crap.

No Country for Old Men – Okay, this one has some promise. From the former Academy Award-winning team of brothers Joel and Ethan Coen, this corpse-strewn flick revolves around Llewellyn Moss and her flight from pursuing psychopath Anton Chisurh. It’s Oh, Brother! With a fucking attitude!

One part artsy bluegrass epic and one part Dirty Harry. Now this sounds like a good movie to me. I have always enjoyed the Coen brothers movies, and I always enjoy a good, senseless bloodbath.

This sounds like it could be more up my alley.

Juno – A smart, outspoken 16-year-old gets pregnant and decides to give the child up for adoption. Now I know what you’re thinking: “Christ, it sounds like a Molly Ringwald movie!”, right? Well, consider that this unique coming-of-age movie was directed by the son of Ivan Reitman, stars cute Canadian actress Ellen Page as Juno, and was also written by a tattooed ex-stripper and phone sex worker Diablo Cody.

Now, doesn’t that sound fucking cool? Certainly peeks your interest somewhat, eh?

The movie also stars Michael Cera and Jason Bateman from the under-appreciated TV series Arrested Development. Oh yeah, and J. K. Simmons from Oz. Yeah, that’s right! The same guy who plays the sodomizing sociopath white supremacist Schilinger also plays Juno’s reluctant father. I’d see this movie for this fact alone. Well, that and for the possibility of seeing me some hot underage sex without having to risk my credit card information over the Internet.

There Will Be Blood – Another of from the ‘never heard of it’ category. At first guess, you’d probably think that this movie was some low-budget zombie flick or something. Instead, this movie stars Daniel Day-Lewis as misanthropic oilman Daniel Plainview who tricks a local farmer in his ruthless pursuit of wealth. Throw something in there about Plainview turning on his handicapped son and you have the perfect recipe for a Hollywood snoozefest.

Personally, after watching My Left Foot I have sworn off Daniel Day-Lewis movies for good. If there’s going to be blood – I hope it’s his. That alone may encourage me to spend the four bucks once it is released to video.

Cold Wind and Snow

2008-02-18T15:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, it’s cold out!

Never mind freezing the balls off a brass monkey, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off Frosty the Snowman himself! So cold in fact, that several GTA school bus companies – not to mention the schools themselves – decided to close for the day.

WTF?

Because it’s COLD?

And in the middle of February too. Imagine that!

Last night, you see, the temperature dropped down to a bone chilling –17 degrees (-34 with the wind chill). That’s pretty fucking cold I agree. But to prevent the children from going to school this morning - you enough, to learn stuff – that’s just ridiculous!

Never mind the kiddies just manning up to walk to the bus stops, but to think that the bus drivers, teachers, and school principals were too pussy to roll out of their nice warm beds? What kind of example are they setting for the youth of tomorrow?

It’s making my eye twitch.

I was never NOT allowed to go to school. Come hell or high water; come rain, sleet, snow, or shine, the student must get through. The issue of temperature was never even considered as a plausible variable for the cancellation of the school learning process.

Hell, my mother would send me out in weather that a Yeti wouldn’t wander out in. She practically planted a foot into my chest as she grabbed a hold of the door frame with both hands and shoved me out into the wintry No Mans Land. No way was I going to interfere with mommy’s Bob Barker time on the account of it being cold.

There were times I nearly lost limbs to frost bite or had my core temperature drop below that of a frozen carp before the bus actually arrived.

And if the bus didn’t arrive for some god-forsaken reason she’d send me packing on foot. Sometimes I felt like Hillary Scott mushing through the forbidding Arctic landscape. Well, by “mushing” I really mean my struggling through mountains of unplowed snowdrifts wafting in the city streets. Seriously, you could have hidden a mammoth in someone’s front yard where it’s wouldn’t be found until spring thaw.

I’m a survivor of the Blizzard of ’77 remember. You know? The one they called “WHITE DEATH”! So I’m no stranger to snow or the cold.

Too young to remember or ignorant to know about the White Death?

Here, let me log your memory:

That was no winter wonderland let me tell you! And do you know how much school they canceled?

NONE!

We WALKED our sorry primary asses to school in those days. I remember my cheeks literally melting off my face and my lips freezing together on some of my walks to school in February. I suffered through the early stages of hypothermia at my desk until lunch. By then my feet had thawed out and I cold walk again. But it was unthinkable to close the school and prevent the shaping of young minds.

Too cold?

“TOO FUCKING BAD! Get your near frozen ass to school and learn something.”

Why do we continue to coddle our children as we do? What are we protecting them from exactly? I understand that times were much harder in the past, but we turned out okay didn’t we? In fact, it’s the reason I’m filled with such a healthy dose of angry vigor today.

For good and for bad*, it made me who I am.

Besides, there should be a little toil in kid’s lives. Particularly when it comes to school. What do they say: ‘No pain no gain’?

And sure winter sucks but deal with it already! It’s not like my current employer would ever accept “because it’s chilly out” as an excuse for my not coming into work. My toasty ass would be out on the street by mid-morning coffee break. Consider it conditioning for being a responsible adult.

It’s teaching children the meaning of commitment. Plus, it’ll help prevent them from having their sorry asses pulverized into a pink paste by the bullies in high school later on.

I mean, honestly, what’s next? Canceling school due to a sever chance of heavy showers?

C’mon.

* Mostly bad.

The Yogurt Monologues (Part V)

2008-02-02T12:23:00.000-08:00

Hello again, health nuts and vegheads.

It has been awhile since I’ve updated you with my progress on this crazy train we call “Healthy Living”, so I thought I’d take the time this afternoon between my Pilates class and Saturday night water polo to keep you abreast* of my current bodily status.

I’m sure by now you’re just salivating at the notion of once again hearing about all my aches and pains; not to mention all my meaty bowel movements and other various spent liquids. Life is all about the little details after all.

I love the feeling of being healthy (or at least, the healthiest I’ve ever managed to be). I am lifting weights, my squash game has improved drastically, I can now pull 5000 meters on the ergometer in just under twenty minutes, and I can make with the bouts of freaky monkey sex for periods longer than the equivalent time it takes to order a pizza. Yep, I have definitely come a long way from that long ago time in my life when the only notion I had of eating healthy was once having cut up a banana into my Grape Nuts.

Am I stud or what?

Yes, I’ve become quite the aficionado of Fitness First. I easily work out a total of four times a week, including swimming, squash, rowing, biking, and weight lifting**. I can now curl approximately a quarter of my own body weight and can press the equivalent of a small circus midget. Prior to getting my YMCA membership, the most I ever curled was the random double-double or the odd KFC drumstick to my lips.

Recently though, I have more become fascinated by the actual gym culture; the whole sordid cesspool of physical exercise that I willingly wade into every other weekday. I can honestly say that each visit I make to the gym I walk around as grossed out as I do spent from actual training. You see, you tend to witness a lot of weird things at your average, local gym or body shop. It’s hard not to notice.

There are some real schmutz’s at the gym. Total asshats.

For example, I watched a guy yesterday in the change room while he toweled off his ass for, like, twenty minutes. This guy didn’t so much as dry himself off with his towel as he made love to it. He worked his towel into crevices that would make any proctologist shudder. And yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes off this train wreck despite the fact I feared the very real possibility that I may, in fact, be going gay without actually realizing it.

Here was a grown man literally violating himself with a bleached linen gym towel. How much moisture did he think he absorbed in the steam room anyway? Was he a sponge or something? Honestly, by watching him compulsively towel-dry his ass for a full twenty minutes you’d think he was a walking inground pool.

Granted, he wasn't trimming his nutsack on the couch but he still couldn’t have been any more brazen in his blasphemy if you ask me.

And as I stared at him fixedly flossing himself with his towel like some topless dancer the full impact of the larger picture hit me: HE WAS USING THE SAME PROVIDED GYM TOWELS THAT I USE!

Eek!

Shit, that meant that the same towel that I was currently wrapped in and had used to dry off might have been wedged up this idiot’s ass too.

Oh, goodie!

I was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea the likes of which I haven’t experienced since the Season Premier of ‘Stacked’. I wanted to set myself on fire in order to purify myself of any possible remaining fecal matter of his that may have been transmitted from his ass through the recycled linen towels.

But as I figure it now, it’s just one of the risks you take every day you walk into the gym. Where’s there’s naked men about there’s bound to be some transmitted fecal matter. It’s just like how the International Food Distribution Association (IFDA) has their set allowable quantity of rat hair per food product which we, in turn, eat. It’s as much Russian Roulette with the gym towels as it is with the mysterious ingredients found bubbling away in the steaming germ cauldron they call a hot tub.

You just try to put such things out of your mind and attempt to enjoy your visit. Otherwise, given the amount of spilt fluvia that occurs at the gym, I’d never even make it past the check-in desk without recoiling in terror.

There is another particular personality at my gym that has me scratching my head in astonished wonderment. Someone whom I have not so affectionately nicknamed “the Bear”.

Everyone has someone that they like to pick on. Even you holier-than-thou types inevitably have someone in this world for whom you take an evil pleasure in spying on. For most people, this is why they read ‘People’ and ‘Star’ magazines. This is why the calluses on Katie Holmes high-heeled tootsies makes the headline news. We have a sick interest in reveling in the misfortunes of others and usually there’s one person in particular.

For me, it’s the Bear***.

The Bear often works out at the gym around the same times as I do. Or rather, he is present around the same times I work out. The fact over whether he actually “works out” is still in question.

You see, the Bear just is. He’s just there. Why is another matter altogether.

To first time observers, the Bear must seem like your normal gym heavyweight wannabe. He has Tupperware tubs of cooked chicken, his workout notebook, his multiple bottles of formulas and protein drinks, and not to mention his huge-ass Santa's bag of assorted weightlifting gloves, braces, harnesses, and other formidable looking things that would make even the Marquis de Sade more than a little nervous.

And yet, if anyone were to actually watch him for such length of time (as I so obviously have) they’d nothing he does little more than sit there on his bench and look fatigued. His whole gym routine seems to be: stop, pause, rest, take a drink, stop, pause, rest, eat some chicken, write in his notebook, pause, rest, repeat.

Where’s the work out? Shit, where’s the 'work'? He sure seems to have the ‘out’ part down pat.

He never lifts a thing and yet he gives off the air of someone who is there to inflict some serious damage on his body. He even goes so far to psyche himself up over a machine that he’s set up with menacing looking weights, but then never actually does anything.

Who’s this fucking guy kidding?

I originally nicknamed him ‘the Bear’ due to his tendency to lean on his machine and push himself off it like he was stretching after completing a vigorous session of reps. When I see him do this it reminds me of a bear lazily bouncing himself off a tree to revitalize his limbs after months of hibernation. It’s hardly what you would call strenuous activity.

What really interests me is what he’s recording in his notebook exactly. He does nothing. Let me repeat: HE DOES NOTHING! And yet, there he is meticulously recording something in his notebook. Maybe he comes to the gym to be inspired to write poetry or nothing because he sure can’t be charting any physical progress during his workout routines.

Well, you now what? I kept my own journal of his daily progress:

Day 1:

Sit - 25 mins
Flex in front mirror – 5 mins
Ogle the ladies in the Aquafit class – 15 mins
Eat some chicken – 5 mins
Sit some more – 35 mins
Drink protein shake – 10 mins
Rummage in bag – 15 mins
Sit again – 20 mins
Stretch – 5 mins
Nap on bench – 10 mins
Rummage in bag again – 5 more mins

It’s fucking ridiculous. An invalid works out more than this asshat. Hell, Christopher Reeve burns more calories in a single day than this guy does in an entire workout.

Clearly, here is a guy in desperate need of a good ‘ol fashioned Biblical-style beat down. Something, or somebody, to really motivate his ass into high gear and stimulate some muscle growth.

Somebody hand me a flail - I’m just the man for the job!

What possesses someone to go through all the lengths of giving off the appearance of being healthy but then never actually making the honest effort to do it? I just don’t understand. He pays a regular monthly membership fee to do – what – splash water on his shirt and pretend to be the next Vasily Alexeyev?

I still get shivers when I remember the time the Bear finally decided to approach me for the sole purpose of making small talk.

Now let’s get one thing straight and I’ve said it before; I’m not there to chitchat, socialize, or make friends by any means. I subscribe to the notion that you plug into your MP3 player and keep your grunts, snorts, and other verbal fluctuations to yourself.

When I work out, it’s all hands on deck. "No Girls Need Apply!"

I don’t feel the need to share any of my clever musings with anybody at the gym. I’m there to sweat, hurt, and quietly stare at the other fitness freaks exhaustingly staring back at me. It’s just the law of the iron jungle.

So when the Bear approached me to ask: “if you could spend your money on one thing, would you visit the former sites of Olympic weight lifting competitions or get Lasik surgery?”

Pardon? Do I have “Disturb Me,” written across my sweaty forehead? Has the sweat from my own work out somehow managed to mark my shirt so that it reads “I Love Talking to Idiots” across my chest or something? I wanted to bend my barbell around his head until it popped.

Why do these morons always seek me out in a crowd?

Anyway, I managed to mutely shrug and shake my head in that telltale “I Don’t Understand English, Dipshit” way until he casually wandered off in search of someone else to offer their pearls of wisdom on this most unusual financial conundrum.

I just couldn’t bring myself to engage him in conversation, stupid or otherwise. And now I have to avert my eyes whenever he’s around to thwart off any other opportunities of contact he may chance****.

But then again, like the inevitably shitty gym towel, these guys are one of the hazards you chance yourself with every time you go to the gym. For me, in a completely odd way, it’s also these random observations and encounters that make going to the gym and keeping healthy and active possible.

It makes the trips, shall we say, interesting?

Now I know this isn’t exactly what you were expecting as far as a Yogurt Monologues update is concerned, but hey, what’s the point of being fit and healthy if you also can’t look down on and make fun of others?

I’m sure that the really uber-fit gym freaks that parade around the gym in their leotards is having secret fun at my expense, so why shouldn’t I have my fun too?

It’s the order of the universe.

I didn’t endure months of being bent over a Swiss exercise ball for the obvious amusement of others for nothing!

* And I don’t mean the finger-licking kind either.

** Not to mention scoping out all the spandex-clad gym bunnies as they parade past the various mirrors and one-way windows.

*** Not to mention Tom Cruise, Anderson Cooper, Sharon Stone, Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson, The Canadian Tire guy, St. Patrick, Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, Martha Stewart, people who drive Minivans, and the guy at Blockbuster to name just a few others.

**** I have also learned to say “eat shit” in a dozen different languages.

The Philosophy of Bullying

2008-01-30T15:45:00.000-08:00

I was involved in idle conversation today at the gym with a student of Sport Philosophy.

After my initial bouts of laughter* I actually got around to discussing this philosophy of sport. I got the impression immediately that he’s had to justify his chosen major of study several times by now. After all, surely I couldn’t be the only one who thinks that Sport Philosophy sounds like total horseshit?

I thought that History of Film was a complete bird course but this is ridiculous!

Anyway, once we got into it a little I was intrigued to learn that there are two popular trains of thought in Sport Philosophy. One dictates that most games we played back in elementary school, such as dodgeball, handball, floor hockey, and the like, are actually detrimental to a child’s psychological growth. The other train of thought just says “suck it up, buttercup!” It’s survival of the fittest as a means of natural development...the way it was; the way it was; and the way it’s always going to be.

Fuckin-A!

Now I know what you’re asking yourself: why have they forsaken classic kid’s games such as dodgeball in the first place, right? Because they promote social segregation, that’s why; namely, the stronger and quicker kid’s on one side versus the slower, weaker kids on the other…just as God intended it.

Call me old-fashioned.

How else are these pathetic, fat kids ever going to get themselves motivated? Nothing says “try harder” than the possibility of a gang wedgie in the shower after gym class. It’s practically Biblical! The weak and the downtrodden have been beaten mercilessly throughout the ages until they somehow are properly inspired to rise above it all and onto bigger and better things…or, they just die off all together.

Either way, it’s the natural order of the universe.

Look at Moses leading his people out of Egypt. Only after years of being enslaved and mistreated the Israelite losers were finally afforded the opportunity to stand up and do something about it once Moses arrived on the scene. Sure they managed to unleash the Ten Plagues on their Egyptian masters and escape via the parted Red Sea. But what did they get for their troubles? Forty years of wandering the desert in exile, that’s what!

But that’s a whole other story, or is that just another case of the strong bullying the weak? After all, God pretty much did stick it to the Hebrews for all those years after helping them escape. Even Moses himself was denied entrance into the Promised Land when he failed to carry out the simple task of bringing forth water from a rock. I mean, how fucking hard is that?

And so God layeth the smack down on ‘ol Moses. And if that’s not a case of classic schoolyard bullying I don’t know what is.

Bruce Hornsby said it best: “that’s just the way it is.”

Deal.

Is it the winner’s fault that the losers suck so much? Or make themselves easy targets? If little Chubby Charlie wants to not be the first man out in Mrs. Walker’s grade three dodgeball game every day he better learn to substitute those bags of Oreo’s for carrot sticks and practice harder.

Not that I’m speaking from experience.

Bullies, as much as they are frowned upon, are actually very important in shaping a child’s mind. They are a vital part of any delicate elementary schoolyard ecosystem. Without them, nothing is ever going to encourage them to improve their physical skills?

Donkey Kong does nothing to improve one’s prowess in dodgeball.

Picture a world with no definite winners and losers, just one big, happy, complacent herd of under achievers. The world would be filled with the type of people who use lint rollers and list ‘World of Warcraft’ in the Hobbies section of their resumes. And then there are always those people who work in customer service.

It would be like living in a world of little Brennan Hawkins'? Remember him? Tell me kids like this don't need an honest days ass-kicking.

That’s sure no world I want to live in!

Sure I got picked on in grade school and it sucked at the time. But it sure inspired me to move my ass occasionally allowing me to burn off some extra calories while conditioning my young, developing “flight” muscles. Being closely pursued by a mod of older bullies from the next grade will do that to you.

Gym class was no different. By the time I graduated grade eight I had learned to dodge with the best of them. And by the end of my schooling altogether I was picking off Chubby Charlie’s on my own and thereby completing one of the most important cycles of life.

And so it goes…

* Three of them in total. Approximately a whole 15 minutes worth each.

Further Tales of the Mad Scientologist

2008-01-22T14:54:00.000-08:00

Well it’s finally happened.

Tom Cruise has boarded the Mother Ship. In fact, he didn’t so much as just board it as he did pack up all his earthly shit, book first class passage and willingly goose-step up the loading plank with Katie and baby in tow.

You just knew it was going to be something tasty to draw me out of near posting retirement didn’t you?

And Chief Dipshit #1, Tom Cruise, is as good a reason as any.

Sure he dented Oprah’s couch and has quarreled with inquisitive journalists, but how the fuck does one get themselves banned from Germany? Holy shit! You know you’re a real asshole when the Motherland of Evil itself decides to distance itself from you.

But it’s true. The Deutschland has made the conscious decision to put its leather-booted foot down hard on ‘ol Tommy and his Scientology ways by prohibiting the makers of his latest film from using German military sites to film.

Take that, Maverick! One minute you’re tonguing Kelly Gillis and the next minute it’s “Nein!”

In the film that centers on a conspiracy to kill Adolph Hitler, Cruise plays the role of head conspirator Colonel Claus van Stauffenberg. Harald Kammembauer, spokesman for the German military, has stated that it is very important to be done correctly. Kammembauer said the military, “has a special interest in the serious and authentic portrayal of the events of July 20, 1944 and Stauffenberg’s person.”

And the reasoning you ask? Because no loony tune Scientologist should ever be allowed to play a Nazi – that’s why! According to the German defense ministry, he has “publicly professed to being a member of the Scientology cult.”

For once I applaud the Germans. Way to go, you evil Kraut bastards!

In Germany Scientology is not acknowledged and the government believes that the group hides under the guise of being a religion as a way to sponge up money from gullible half wits - like Tom Cruise.

And you know what the Germans are like when they get the least bit suspicious. Your average German makes most coke dealers look relaxed. Lets just put it this way, if the Germans were allowed to have their ovens back Scientologists would be the first on the cookie sheets.

And it doesn’t stop there. Not only is the German military pissed at Cruise, but it has also offended Stauffenberg’s own family…actual Nazi’s!

Now that’s some claim to fame when real Nazi’s disapprove of you. Berhold Stauffenberg, the colonel’s son, was not happy with Tom Cruise being cast as his father because of his Scientology beliefs. He told a local newspaper, Seuddeutsche Zeitung: “He should keeps his hands off my fazzer.”

You tell him, Belloq.

So, how did I ever get on this whole Scientology crazy train anyway? Not that Scientology, or Tom Cruise for that matter, haven’t been begging for it for years. I know this whole Nazi’s vs. Cruise thing is old news by now, but as luck would have it a video of Tom Cruise discussing Scientology also briefly surfaced on YouTube before being deleted. So on top of being banned by Nazi’s, it turns out that Tom Cruise also can’t keep a video on YouTube either.

YouTube only has about a zillion videos of dogs licking peanut butter or dudes getting corked in the nut sack, but apparently Tom’s bullshit Scientology hocus pocus just doesn’t cut it. How sad it that?

The video, which showed Cruise accepting a 2005 ‘Freedom Medal of Valor’ from the Church of Scientology, was alleged pulled from YouTube at the urging of the Church of Scientology itself for copyright violations.

Yeah, whatever!

In the video, Tom says that he thinks, “it’s a privilege to call yourself a Scientologist, and its something you have to earn.” Well, if earning yourself a banning by Nazi’s and YouTube and becoming the butt of everyone’s jokes are what you were trying to earn than mission accomplished, dipshit.

Bravo.

He goes on to say that a Scientologist has the ability to “create new and better realities and improved conditions”…whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Sounds like bullshit Scientology hocus pocus to me. For a religion that practices a strict abstinence from drugs and medication they sure sound like they exhibit the same symptoms as those who do. Do they really expect me to believe that people who pride themselves on creating “better realities” doesn’t take the odd hit or dose of something? Surely, they must toke the odd reefer at the very least.

The video continues on for about 10 minutes in much this same manner – with Cruise talking and laughing about being a Scientologist, the fact that Scientologists should do and be involved, and the idea that Scientologists can help the world.

It’s a literal Scientologists wet dream of hocus pocus.

Clearly Scientologists were the intended audience and therefore the video was not intended as a recruiting tool for non-believers. Rather it speaks to Scientologists about their duties and his own personal experiences. Cruise went on to talk about how he sees his role to KSW, or “Keep Scientology Working” – the phrase coined by Scientology’s founder, L. Ron Hubbard*. He also talks about SP’s (Suppressive Peoples) and PT’s (Potential Trouble Source). Boy, Scientology really digs its acronyms. I guess they feel it makes them seem more, well, science-like. Honestly, they have more acronyms than any ER episode.

Personally, I think it’s rather like reading the script to a Michael Crichton flick and I think I'd rather rub my nut sack over sandpaper.

He also talks about the areas in which Scientologists are the world’s authorities. According to Cruise, Scientologists are the leading experts in getting people off of drugs, the mind, improving conditions, criminal rehabilitation, uniting cultures, and bringing peace – just to name a few.

Clever monkeys these Scientologists. Too bad they’re hated by Nazi’s and YouTube, and apparently have welcomed a moron as one of their prominent figureheads.

Sure he energetically signs autographs, poses for cell phone cameras, and shakes every hand thrust in his face, but behind that otherwise happy façade lays a total asshat through and through. Forget jumping on Oprah’s couch like a spastic chimpanzee or those weird high-heel demands he made on Nicole, let’s look at the recent notable highlights from this video:

1) Cruise refers to ‘spectators’ in the video and says he has no time for such people. Apparently you’re either on this crazy train for the long haul or you’re not – that’s it – there’s no middle ground. You’re either on the shortbus or you’re off the shortbus. I guess this also means that you can’t take a little time to test the water first and make sure this whole Scientology thing is really the right belief system for you. I don’t know about you, but I like to read the menu first before committing myself to dinner. And if that qualifies me as a ‘spectator’ than so be it!

Besides, isn’t this an odd thing to say considering his given acting profession? Where would he be exactly without ‘spectators’? Living in a cardboard box and eating cat food in the Hollywood hills – that’s where! I bought a ticket way back to see ‘Mission Impossible’, so I deserve some thanks. See if I ever spectate one of your movies again, you ungrateful prick!

2) Cruise also makes it very clear in the video that he is doing all he can do to make a difference and he wants to do more. Pardon? What the fuck does Cruise do that’s making such an impact on the world? What has he done lately that’s realigned the world’s axis back on even keel? I haven’t seen him building any schools in poverty-stricken countries, adopting a Third World crack baby, or even physically assisting to raise money for any reputable causes**? He’s no fucking Bono or Bob Geldof is he? Shit, he’s not even a Sean Penn or Rosie O’Donnell for that matter either.

Oh wait, maybe he was referring to his founding and donation-raising for Downtown Medical to provide 9/11 rescue workers detoxification therapy based upon the works of Chief Numbnut himself, L. Ron Hubbard.

Oh goodie! No strings attached there, eh?

Medical professionals and firefighters were in an uproar. Who knew religious-based medical treatments would be met with such skepticism? Maybe if he were to throw in a complimentary ‘Engram Cleansing’, or half-off any regular ‘Aura Waxing’ he might have had himself more takers.

3) Cruise says he is “fighting the good fight” but never really mentions what it is he’s fighting. The War of Terror? The War on Drugs? The Cola Wars? War of the Worlds? What exactly are we fighting here? Is there a battle going on somewhere I don’t know about? Should I be bottling water or is this just more bullshit Scientology hocus pocus?

4) At one point Cruise enters into a tirade on how he wants to go on vacations to explore the world but he doesn’t because of what he “knows”. Umm, hello? It looks like his whole fucking fairy-book life has been a vacation to me. But let me get this straight; when he’s not filming in exotic locations, dining in extravagant restaurants, or visiting trendy “It” spots in all the worlds cosmopolitan metropolis’, he’s locked away in his hotel room for fear of what he “knows”?

I call shenanigans!

5) Apparently, when he’s not in front of the camera or making an ass out of himself he’s pulling people from burning wrecks and rescuing kittens from trees. He said so himself – he can’t help it – he just has to do ‘something’ when he sees these things.

He’s like fucking Superman! I want whatever reality it is that this guy is creating for himself please.

6) What the fuck is up with that laugh? It doesn’t seem genuinely all knowing and blissfully happy to me – it borders on a ‘scary mental institution’ persona that makes him seem like some half-ass Batman villain***. It’s a creepy laugh! It’s the kind of laugh that one makes before they carve up a freshly killed corpse if you ask me. My instincts upon seeing this video were not “Oh, cool! Run towards enlightenment”, it’s “Oh, fuck! Run for your life!”

In the end, I am left with one burning question: What the hell does he know (or thinks he knows) that the rest of us don’t? He makes constant reference in the video about the things he “knows”.

Do Scientologists ever really tell us anything though? They claim to “know” lots of shit about lots of shit – experts in fact. Well you know what? I wanna see some credentials! Show me some kind of approved certificate, medical diploma, merit badge, or anything other than just giving me your word on what you know!

Whatever it is, I say – keep it to yourself – I’m not ready to travel to wherever it is you’re heading, crazy man!

This might be why the video was pulled in the first place because the Church of Scientology didn’t exactly want Cruise becoming the poster child for their religion . What it comes down to is that Cruise seems to be teetering on the brink of several different realities.

Much of the video is unclear. But none of this hides the fact that ‘ol Tommy has gone completely loony tunes.

The bitch is back. Spread the word.

* Who, is it also interesting to note, was originally a pulp and science fiction writer in the 40’s and 50’s. You may feel free to insert your own punch line here.

** How about him hosting an annual ‘Luau for Lupus’ maybe?

*** ‘Retardo’ maybe.

Canadian Psycho

2007-09-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

It’s official. I’m on edge.

In fact, I’m beyond edgy. At this point I make Gary Busey seem, well, ordinary I guess. But surely you get the idea.

What can I say? Things haven’t been going exactly smoothly as of late. I feel like the dude that Graham Nash warbled on about in the old Hollies song ‘King Midas in Reverse’.

“He’s not the one to hold your trust
Everything around him turns to dust
In his hand
Nothing he can do is right
He’d even like to sleep at night
But he can’t”

It’s true. Everything I touch lately turns to shit quicker than Brittany Spears professional reputation.

I’m lower than caterpillar shit. Where do I start?

My professional life is about as enjoyable as going to work to be kicked in the nuts all day. Actually, being kicked in the nuts all day sounds more inviting than my job. Financially I’m so broke that Ed McMahon sends me collection notices saying that I owe him $10,000.

Socially, I’m about as active as Wilfred Brimley’s bowels. Seriously, there are single celled bacteria that exist around the rim of my toilet with better social lives than I have. To say that I haven’t been laid in a long time is an insult to chronic masterbater’s everywhere!

And most disturbingly, my squash game is starting to be affected as well. And to me, that’s some serious shit I don’t want to fuck with right there!

Give me herpes. Give me two heads. Tie me to a rock and have my liver torn out by a hungry eagle every morning at daybreak – give me whatever in this miserable life – just don’t fuck with my squash game! Unfortunately, life has no mercy. Even the Squash Gods have forsaken me and look down and laugh. Lately I can’t hit a cow in the ass with a snow shovel. I play with all the focused intensity of a hungry senior citizen attacking their Cream of Wheat.

Yes. Life blows. And it blows hard. It blows like a Hawaiian volcano. It blows like a $20 hooker. It blows like September in the Gulf of Mexico – whatever. It sucks. And needless to say I am a bit anxious about it.

Now I know what you’re thinking besides “Wow! This guy has some issues”: “what is keeping this guy out of the clock tower”, right? How do I manage to keep myself all cool and composed and continually resist the urge to go all ape shit and off myself in a final blaze of glory?

To this I say that imagination is a wonderful thing. In my head, I can act accordingly the way I should be allowed to react when faced with complete idiocy*. I can therefore quietly lash out and let loose all my aggression without having consequential jail time. By now, I must have murdered off everyone I know at least twice.

What can I say? It keeps me sane - in a weird, insane kind of way.

And I’m not just talking about simply wishing hem dead and then moving on again. Oh no! I’m talking about the playing out of an entire, elaborate, grizzly death scene in my mind - something worthy of a Rob Zombie video.

Little do people know that under this seemingly calm façade I’m actually a raging sociopath of Michael Meyers-like proportions. There’s just something instantly soothing and therapeutic about imagining a gruesome, horrible death on somebody who pisses you off and getting it out of your system before going on with the rest of your day - simple.

It alleviates all that pent-up “NGGGAHHH, MUTHERFUCKERS!” rage inside you.

Listed for you below are ten of my more memorable and creative deaths I’ve wished on various family and friends of mine whenever they’ve had the misfortune of being insensitive or inattentive to my own needs like the rat bastards they are.

1) Swallowed whole by 20’ long python.

This one I recommend to reserve for people whom you don’t really want to kill outright, but slowly torture through extremely uncomfortable means instead. Somebody for whom the though of turning into 3 lbs. of python turd left at the bottom of a glass tank is a welcome one; like the woman who holds up lines by checking through more than a dozen items at the ‘Express Check Out’.

2) Trampled by stampeding cattle.

I find this wished death best left for times when you are outside or in the open where you can envision acres of the marauding beasts coming up over the horizon and towards your target. Some times it’s fun to imagine the cattle suddenly crashing through the walls of the office place and wrecking havoc in the aisles overtaking the source of your annoyance in a flurry of horns and hooves.

3) Crushed under a falling piano.

C’mon. Who didn’t chuckle to themselves when Sylvester the Cat got himself flattened by a grand piano? How cool would that be to see in real life? What I wouldn’t give to see a piano fall from out of nowhere onto any sicko at work who doesn’t feel the automatic need to thoroughly rinse their hands after taking a leak.

4) Choked on a hot dog.

I call this one the “Mama Cass Special”. It’s a rather simplistic way to die, I agree. But what it lacks for in creativity it more than makes up for with graphic possibilities. Anyone who’s ever seen somebody choking before knows that this is a rather unpleasant experience - making it all the better an end result for stupidity.

The real beauty of this wished death is that you can substitute any random food item that you might happen to be feasting on at the time. If somebody really ticks you off and you therefore want to spice things up a little bit, try lodging a watermelon in someone’s esophagus. That uppity douchebag next door with all the really expensive power tools in his garage and who insists on running them all on Sunday mornings for no apparent reason other than to wake the dead.

5) Drowned in battery acid.

This one came to me after watching Jack Nicholson take a swan dive into a vat of simmering green goo in Batman. I added my own little twist for the sake of artistic expression. Sometimes during my mental slayings my target will emerge afterwards with purple hair and perma-smile. Upon which I am suddenly donned in a rubberized body suit and proceed to whoop me some idiot ass in the name of revenge. Of course, the old melting flesh and high pitching screaming is nice too.

6) Mauled by syphillic mountain gorillas.

Here’s a real favorite of mine that came to me in a series of dreams where I must have been visited by my Spirit Psychoguide or something. . You just don’t randomly come up with little gems like this on the spot. In hindsight, it might have had something to do with eating some undercooked drumsticks one evening and passing out in front of ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ on the television. Again, I take creative license with the syphilis. But it was these visions in particular that lead me onto this homicidal coup de tat. This beauty comes from a higher - or lower - place.

I save this wished upon death for those really, obnoxious retards you want to physically harm if only they weren’t bigger, cooler, and better looking than you. Like those morons at the gym who stack, like, a thousand pounds on their bench and then walk away.

7) Boiled in molten lava.

The classics never go out of style. Pass the poi.

8) Injected with Ebola virus.

Here’s a doozy. All you need to do is Google ‘Ebola Virus’ and you’ll find enough gnarly images to keep you awake for the rest of your life. You’d have to be some kind of completely annoying asshat to ever have this wished upon you. The “Movie Guy” at Blockbuster comes to mind. Shit, any Blockbuster employee for that matter.

9) Assassinated by ninja’s.

This one is just cool to envision. I can keep myself blissfully occupied for hours while the shit hits the fan picturing this ensuing battle as stealthy, black-clad ninja’s proceed to dissect my nemesis to pieces with their swords and throwing stars. Entertaining as it is effective.

And lastly…

10) Fucked to death by horny bull elephants.

I recommend using this one sparingly. I also recommend not really trying to envision it too much when you play it out in your mind. Needless to say that I save this one for special occasions. I don’t just hand this one out to anybody. You have to really earn this fate, baby. Let me spare you the image altogether by saying I’d rather stick my manhood into a wood chipper than suffer the fate of being fornicated by one promiscuous African elephant - never mind an entire herd.

Do you know the average weight of your average bull elephant’s penis? Fortunately for everybody I do. Would you believe 59.5 lbs.! Each elephant testicle alone weights in at just 4.4 lbs.! That’s over 60 lbs. of furious, hard fucking bull elephant cock slamming into you with reckless abandon. Now that’s gonna leave a mark emotionally!

So whether it be images of some poor bastard having a train being run on him by Jumbo and all his buddies in some after hours circus tent, or some schmuck having his body being used as a drum kit by diseased primates - dealing with stress in this manner keeps me from acting out.

And, yes, I do take a sick, evil pride in having conjured up these frightful scenarios on my very own. It took real creativity, dammit! I’m like the artist who paints with oils, or the sculptor who molds in clay. I can weave my macabre tapestry of imaginary slayings in a way that I could just as easily be adding crisp, yet delicate brush strokes to a rolling meadow on any canvass. When it comes to creating horrific ways to die – I am a Rembrandt.

Besides, it is delightfully calming and usually cheers me up right away.

Like yoga. Only more violent and bloody.

Or maybe I really am just two short steps away from over-obsessing about body lotions and business cards and developing an interest in home chemistry.

Who really knows?

* We have ridiculous, asinine things known as laws that prevent us civilized patrons of planet Earth from dealing with matters in a fashion completely deserving of complete assholes.

Fuck Facebook!

2007-09-03T18:32:00.000-07:00

I hate Facebook. I hate it like I hate Raymond.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “But Terry, EVERYBODY loves Raymond!” But it’s not true. I don’t like Raymond. In fact, I think “Terry Hates Raymond” would have made for a much better television show. And, so, by default I absolutely hate Facebook.

Unfortunately for me, the entire fucking world has gone Facebook crazy in an explosion of “Super Fun Walls” and “Likeness Quizzes”.

How did all this Facebook madness get started anyway?

It started off all simply enough. I registered an account and was instantly located by old friends and acquaintances from high school and overseas; all of which I have reinitiated lines of communication. It was pretty cool actually.

But what started originally as a convenient and fun way to reestablish a connection with lost friends soon morphed itself into a cyber circus of ridiculous applications and features so confusing it gives Bill Gates nightmares. Before I knew it, I had been sucked up into the very demonic vortex of this Internet whirlwind known as Facebook.

Boozemail, Bathroom Wall, Honesty Box, Porn Star Names, Top Friends, Hawaiian Luau’s, Growing Gifts, Hatching Gifts, Chalkboards, Pet Monkey’s, Aquariums, Magic 8-Ball’s, marauding vampires and werewolves, zombie armies, hell, you just fucking name something completely arbitrary and stupid and there’ll probably be about a dozen applications just for you!

“Hey, So-and-so likes using and has added ‘The Spanking Tree’ application to their Facebook profile and thinks you should to. To accept please click on the…”

“Spanking Tree? No thanks, MJ.”

IGNORE.

Who uses all this shit anyway?

Some of these invitations sound downright disgusting. For the record: if I were ever to involve myself in something known as a “Super Poke”, I would insist on seeing some recent blood work results and then, maybe, meet for coffee first. There will be no super-poking until I am comfortable and have at least had a chance to limber up first.

There’s even a Catbook and Dogbook for your furry four-legged friends. Isn’t that cute?

Sure, it all seems fine and dandy at first, but just think what deep sociological damage is being done to the one person who finds themselves with the awkward realization that their cat or dog has more friends than they do.

Here’s a person who’ll be racing to the nearest clock tower with their deer rifle.

On the flip side of the coin, how annoying is it to have your inbox invaded by thousands of emails inviting you to join their various events and outings, add new friends or features, or add more bullshit applications to your account?

I’ve had people with whom I’m fairly certain I’ve never even met in my life request to have me add them to my list of friends. That’s weird, right? You just know it’s only a short step from here to being baited by some Internet predator in a chat room and agreeing to meet up in some public bathroom at the park.

But for some people it’s definitely Quantity over Quality when it comes to their Facebook. I have seen people with over 700 people in their Friend’s list. How do they know so many people? They must have to employ a personal secretary just to keep up with all the incoming and outgoing instant messages from friends and family. Nobody is that fucking popular!

So why do they all want to be my friend so bad?

Likewise, how about those people who obviously sit awake all night thinking up ways to improve your quality of life? They must lay awake conjuring up idiotic features and applications to add to your Facebook account that would add significant value to your miserable existence. I want to bury a meat clever into the frontal lobes of these people.

Honestly.

Are these applications a true indication of how your friends feel about you? Judging by all the invitations I get to receive alcoholic beverages and naughty gifts, it’s safe to assume that my friends think that I’m some kind of alcoholic whore.

Or are these just subliminal nudges in a particular direction?

I wonder if these cute and seemingly harmless applications have ever resulted in something more sinister than intended? Take the infamous Food Fight application that had everybody throwing everything from cream pies to sheep at one another. I wonder if someone ever took having a sheep lobbed at him or her a little too seriously and responded by stuffing a Molotov cocktail up the exhaust pipe of their nemesis’ Subaru.

“Thrown a sheep at me will you fuck face?”

Don’t laugh. It could happen.

I can foresee a time in the not-so-distant future where an entire war will be waged over the Internet by these legions of sociable techno geeks. Sure, it starts with innocent kissy face profile pictures and maybe a harmless Internet vampire bite between strangers intended in good fun, but soon enough, little Johnny will return to wage holy hell on all those hapless people in his friend’s list who turned against him.

There’s a perfectly good reason why I don’t stay in touch with some people. Because they’re fuckin’ nuts! Suddenly, all these happily forgotten people from my past are hunting me down one by one. No doubt to exact their revenge.

I feel so exposed.

Now that same annoying, useless, lazy subletter that sat on the couch and hoarded my bagels back in University has located me once again and has not only requested to be my friend, but has also invited me to participate as an Ensign in his growing zombie army. Fuck me! That’s a complete 360-degree turn from my past that would make Anderson Cooper toss his cookies!

Suddenly, this whole Facebook thing seems about as good an idea as dropping Jim Morrison into a meth lab.

Grooving With the Fuhr

2007-08-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

Almost a year ago, the world discovered exactly what an aficionado Adolph Hitler was for the arts when 21 watercolors of his own doing were auctioned off at a London auction house for a cool $220,000 smackers. Now another find from Hitler’s past has surfaced in a Moscow attic belonging to ex-Soviet Intelligence officer Lev Besymenski.

You can just hear the collective sound of palms being rubbed together with furious anticipation by the world’s WWII history buffs and music appreciators alike.

Like his artworks, this recent discovery is of particular interest since it helps shed further light on the man behind he monster. In fact, you couldn’t ask for a more significant discovery had you found an old shoebox of schizer videos in his bunker footlocker. What is this amazing discovery you ask? Why his record collection of course!

How juicy is that?

Finally, we can answer the age-old question: what does one listen to after a long day of warmongering and exterminating undesirables? What, exactly, did Hitler like to chill out to back at his Chancellery pad?

We’d all like to automatically assume, knowing the man as we do, that he’d totally be into his Marilyn Manson, or Neil Diamond nowadays. But given that these loud, demonic, heavy metal bands weren’t even the faintest drunken glimmer in their grandfathers eye yet…what did the great Fuhr listen to that pushed him over the edge? What was the equivalent of your typical Metallica album back around the turn of the century?

You can almost hear it now: "Hey baby. How would you like to come back to my bunker and listen to some records?"

But first, let’s recap how this unusual WWII artifact was discovered in the first place.

Our saga begins on a warm mid-May afternoon in 1945 war-ravaged Berlin. Lev Besymenski, the captain of the military intelligence service of the First Belarusian Front, is given a mission: Together with two other officers, he is to inspect the Reich Chancellery -- stormed just a few days before -- including the underground bunker where Hitler stayed during the war and eventually committed suicide.

He has meticulously searched the headquarters of the Nazi regime for several hours. Suddenly the Soviet commander responsible for the building asks him what souvenir he would like to take with him.

His comrades have already helped themselves to cutlery engraved with the initials “A. H.” in a shopping spree the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Goering walked the streets of Paris only a few years earlier; a little looting game of “tit for tat” if you will. They selected leather cases containing medals and other trinkets, furniture, and tapestries. But Besymenski thinks of something else. He asks the officer to open several large iron doors for him that had been secured with special locks.

“We were faced with a strange sight,” he would write decades later: “Several rows of sturdy wooden boxes stood in each room, numbered and packed closely together.” German service staff said the boxes were packed for shipment to the Berghof, Hitler's residence in Bavaria, but the trip never took place, according to Besymenski. The boxes were filled with crockery and various household effects*.

Besymenski fills a box with souvenirs for himself and later takes it back to Moscow on a special train. Forty-six years will go by before his daughter Alexandra discovers the booty by chance.

Flash to August 1991, a pleasant summer day in the dacha settlement Nikolina-Gora close to Moscow, where the Besymenski family owns a house. The family has visitors, and steaming blinis are placed on the veranda table at lunchtime. Then it's time to relax over some borsch and caviar from the neighborhood ‘Das Dollarmart’. Besymenski sends his daughter into the attic to get badminton rackets where - what does she bump her shin into - but a box of old albums labeled “Führerhauptquartier”.

And, low and behold, we have the Fuhr’s record collection. And so onto the big question: what the fuck did histories most brutal dictator listen to in order to drown out all the evil voices going on in his head?

Well, as it turns out, where there can no doubt of the intensity for his hate-on towards the Russians and Jews; he sure loved their music.

Yep. Hitler sure loved him some Jew music all right.

It is well know that next to architecture and shitty watercolors, music was Hitler’s big passion in life…well, aside from the whole racial cleansing thing that is. So among the expected finds of classical European orchestral music were Wager’s “The Flying Dutchman,” performed by the Orchestra of the ‘Bayreuth Festspielhaus’ with Heinz Tietjen conducting, and Beethoven’s ‘Piano Sonatas No. 24 in F-sharp major’ and ‘No. 27 in E-minor’. However, stashed away in the collection were also albums by Russian composers like Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov, as well as many albums of popular Jewish pianists, violinists, etc. of the time.

Far out, maaaan.

But wait! How can this be? The Nazi’s considered these people “sub-humans” didn’t they?

Seems like kind of a moot point now though.

“I feel this is a sheer mockery of the millions of Slavs and Jews who had to die because of the racial ideology of the Nazis,” a stirred-up Alexandra Besymenskaya (now 53) remarks today.

Hey. That’s a bit of a harsh thing to say about someone’s record collection isn’t it? I mean, I have the odd Public Enemy hidden away in my record collection but that hardly qualifies me as an OG gangster, now does it?

So the closest thing to the Anti-Christ we’ve see in modern history liked to beat off to a little Jewish fiddle music – so what? It turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?

What really makes this discovery really interesting in my mind is recognizing that these albums are probably what Hitler used to hide under the bed to keep them secret from his mother. You know - like that stealthily concealed Robert Plant album that you prayed your mother wouldn’t find while you were off at school. Well, that was in my house anyway.

You can almost hear her now:

“ADOLPH! What is that devil Jew musik I hear coming from your room!”

To which, little Adolph would reply:

“What Jew musik, mama? I’m listenink to my Beethoven like a guter junge .”

Or…

“ADOLPH! Turn off that Jew musik right this instant, junger mann !”

“But, mama. All the kids are listening to Jew music these days. It’s the am kühlsten ! Don’t be such a quadrat .”

* Among the random household artifacts included a Swastika-shaped jelly mold, and curiously enough, a recipe for Baklava.

Jail House Frock

2007-06-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

Okay. So who else is getting sick to death of hearing about notorious Bimbostein, Paris-dumbfuck-Hilton?

It’s been nearly three weeks now of this continued nonsense and STILL we are condemned to hearing about her every movement to and from LA’s Century Regional Detention Facility located in Lynwood, California.

The news is run amok with gossip. She’s depressed; she’s bored; she’s crying all the time. God, make it all stop! It’s enough to make you throw yourself in front of a moving bus.

Never mind what car bombs are blowing up innocents where or whatever the latest breaking news is on our on-going War-Against-Whatever-It-Is-We’re-Fighting-These-Days – some blonde rich bitch has run into trouble with the law! Suddenly, the entire planet’s attention has been temporarily diverted to the whole debacle that is Paris Hilton going to jail.

The whole story began little over three weeks ago when Paris turned herself into the LA Men’s Correctional Fascility at approximately 10:30PM after attending a ritzy MTV Movie Awards party beforehand.

She was then escorted to the all-women's facility in Lynwood, where she was booked, fingerprinted, photographed, medically screened and issued an unfashionably orange prison uniform. Although to my horny mind, I prefer to envision her booking process as more of the messy love scene from the movie Backbeat.

Her mug shot portrayed her in what appeared to be a designer V-neck shirt, eye makeup and lip-gloss that highlighted the faintest hint of a flirty smile. Her long blond hair was draped over one shoulder a la Sports Illustrated. For all purposes, it looked like just another ordinary prima donna photograph from one of her recent modeling shoots. The kind of look she might make when she's deciding on which color of nail polish to purchase.

All seemed to be going considerably well under the circumstances for the world’s favorite Celebutante. “I am trying to be strong right now,” Paris said of her jail time set to begin that Tuesday. “I'm really scared but I'm ready to face my sentence.”

Brave words. But from there the floodgates opened up.

The Hollywood rumor mill began to fly almost immediately that Paris was not going to be able to handle her 45-day jail sentence.

My first thought was “only 45 days”? Shit, David Blaine spent seven days submerged inside a fish bowl for Pete’s sake! And after only one day inside a 12-by-8-foot jail cell, cut off from the spoils of her high society lifestyle, poor Paris is already sniveling like a redheaded stepchild.

News reports and gossip columnists began reporting that Paris was not eating or sleeping and spending much of her days crying in her cell or on her phone. As a result, the Sheriff’s department later released her under house arrest instead due to a “mysterious medical condition”.

But lets back up for a moment…

Not eating or sleeping? Am I supposed to take this seriously? The girl weighs about 100 lbs. soaking wet. It looks like she exists on a Skittle-a-day as it is. Clearly, here is a chick that hasn’t had many steak dinners as it is – at least not ones she’s keeping down anyway. She has the same body build of a detained Prisoner of War.

A little cereal, bread, and juice would do Paris some good!

And for the not sleeping part – isn’t she a notorious fixture of the LA nightclub scene? When Paris goes clubbing we’re not talking about baby seals here.

Hardly a tabloid ever hits the news stands these days without a snapshot of a gussied up Ms. Hilton whooping it up at all hours of the night and throwing around her trademark pouty smile for the legions of cameramen.

So I’m hardly worried now that suddenly she isn’t getting a decent night’s sleep.

It was also mentioned that she complained incessantly about her jail cell being too bright and too cold.

Cold? Well, duh! She’s the equivalent in weight to that of an anorexic gerbil.

Hey, here’s an idea: FUCKING EAT SOMETHING! Put some meat on those bones! Have a cupcake or something, sweetheart. A few extra calories at this point might just improve your core temperature by a few degrees. As it is now, this detained debutante would complain about being cold on the surface of the sun!

Now, for the “being too bright” part.

Okay. I may be able to sympathize with her on this point. Hey, what with all that lucrative night clubbing and late night soirees, the sudden increase in light intensity has probably fucked up all her rods and cones permanently. After all, she probably hasn’t seen the light of day since she hit puberty. Her world is one of darkened dance clubs and underground hotel room porno shoots – not bright florescent lighting.

So throw her a satin sleepers mask and be done with it!

No sooner had Paris began the first few days into her sentence for driving with a suspended license then she was released by the Sheriff’s department on the urging of her psychologist who claimed that poor Paris was suffering from an undisclosed medical condition only 24 short hours later.

Umm, when did being s-t-u-p-i-d constitute as a “medical condition”?

Honestly. Sign me up. I’m ready for the Bar Exam right now.

Whatever the case, Paris was released back to her LA mansion under house arrest where she immediately ordered VIP service from the “Tan Van” in celebration of her release from the Big House.

Now, how is this justice exactly? Because being waited on hand and foot in a luxury mansion that makes Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory seem like a cushion fort by comparison, just doesn’t sound like punishment to me.

Shit, if that’s the punishment for drinking while impaired – “Bring me another double, garcon! And warm up the Limo. Daddy’s going for a drive.”

Also, as part of the terms for her house arrest, Paris was required to wear a GPS tracking system on her ankle.

GASP!

Won’t somebody puh-lease think of the tans lines here?!

Yeah, and that’s going to be very effective tracking her whereabouts around a Hollywood Hills mansion. What’s the point? The chick is so skinny it’ll probably just drop off the second she leaves the squad car anyway.

In the meantime, Paris’ neighbors have taken up the campaign to have her evicted from the neighborhood. Leaflets - distributed by Christopher Hauck and Anne Goursaud - read: “Since the arrival of Paris Hilton to our neighborhood, we have seen our quality of life deteriorate.” The pamphlets urge members of the immediate community to contact the police and councilmen to seek for her removal from the Hollywood Hills area.

It seems the neighbors have been complaining about the sound of overhead helicopters since the whole situation began. Even Cameron Diaz who lives in the area stated:

“She just has to get plastered all over the world. There were 10 helicopters above her house, which I live not too far from. I was like, 'Could you please keep it down.

“We all suffer when Paris suffers.”

I’m like, okay, Cameron. Thanks for downplaying the whole situation.

It must really suck to have your poolside Guatemalan Spa treatment continually interrupted by the paparazzi.

But the house arrest was not to be. Paris was later dragged back to the Twin Towers mental fascility kicking and screaming in the back of a Sheriff’s car once again only to be returned to Lynwood. I’d be lying if I said the images of Paris sobbing in the back seat of a police car wouldn’t fuel many future fantasy’s to come I assure you!

It seems that some judge was royally pissed that the Sheriff’s department would release the ‘Simply Life’ star only two days into her sentence. So the handcuffed heiress was mandated to serve out the rest of her 45-day sentence and a warrant was issued for her retrieval.

So much for “severe medical problems”. Just force-feed her meds down her throat like you were packing a goose with pate and be done with it. Problem solved.

Just be sure to check her care packages of Beluga caviar for nail files.

On the positive side, things have seemingly gone well for other jail detainees since Paris has returned however. Recently released Rosemary Gibbons, 35, told the New York Daily News: “Since she was here last week, they started giving us double bologna, double apple juices. Two blankets instead of one - and a sheet, too! Everyone has cookies coming out of their pockets.

“Now we feel like we are in the Hilton Hotel.”

Atta girl, Rosemary. Onward and upward!

Womb Raiders

2007-04-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

How do I get me one of those adopted Third World babies?

Just about anyone who’s who is getting themselves one. They’re all the rage in Hollywood it seems.

Nicole Kidman has one; Sharon Stone has one; Meg Ryan has one; Calista Flockhart* has one; Angelina Jolie has three, and now Madonna has one too. And, you know if it’s good enough for the Material Girl, then it’s good enough for me!

I imagine if I could get my hands on one of these nappy-haired less-than-fortunate orphan babies, my street cred around town would skyrocket dramatically.

And that’s a bet even Pete Rose couldn’t pass up!

It must be pretty easy to do by the looks of it. Just get yourself a return ticket to any Third World shantytown and pluck up any random child splashing around in a disease-ridden puddle and, VIOLA! - Instant parenthood. And without all the regular preliminary bullshit, like child birthing and dating n’ stuff.

And I know what you’re all thinking: making me responsible for the well-being of any small child is about as good an idea as having R. Kelly coach girls volleyball. And I agree wholeheartedly! I would probably drop the poor thing like 3rd period French at least three times before we even boarded the plane. I don’t have the good sense that God gave a goose.

But, how then, do all these Hollywood celebrities get their mitts on these disadvantaged foreign children? Surely, the members of Hollywood’s A-List aren’t really being thought of as anything resembling a stable, supportive family role model - are they? Shit, Drew Barrymore was shot gunning beers and doing lines of coke off her nannies ass when she was seven years old for Pete’s sake.

But, still, it seems that adopted children have become the new fashionable accessory. Soon, all the top designers will be peddling starving orphans in all the schmultzy boutiques along Rodeo Drive.

“Oh, Paris! That Nepalese crack baby really brings out the rhinestones in your Gucci shoulder bag.”

But really – what’s the big deal?

The Queen of Pop, recently returned to Malawi to meet her adoptive son’s father as well as to check on some aid work she is involved with. On her last trip last year, Madonna stirred up controversy after being accused of using her celebrity status to circumvent laid down rules about foreigners adopting Malawian children. Yohane Banda, the father of little David Banda, Madonna’s adopted son, claims that he did not understand the conditions of Madonna’s interim custody order when the child was taken from him. He claimed that his child had been stolen from him.

“One minute we talking about all going for ice cream, and the next thing I know, I’m left standing there holding a goat”, says Mr. Banda on what he remembers about Madonna’s adoptive process.

So her return visit to Malawi to temporarily reunite the child with his father could be viewed as nothing more than a strategically planned daycare damage control.

And not to be outdone, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt adopted a 3-½ year old boy from Vietnam named Pax Thien. That’s the third adopted child into Angelina’s growing brood. She already has Maddox, 5 (Cambodia), Zahara, 12 (Ethiopia), and little Shiloh, 10 months. The tabloids have even claimed recently that when it comes to her United Colors of Benetton family of children, it’s little Shiloh, her own flesh and blood that often goes without Mommy’s love.

I guess Angelina doesn’t dig white meat.

But, whatever, the two are gripped in this whole game of adoptive “One Up-man-ship” in the media lately. Many are concerned that this recent Third World baby boom among celebrities casts a shadow somehow over the whole foreign child adoptive process.

Shadow? What shadow? Shit, if Angelina Jolie or Madonna were ever to decide that they wanted to adopt a single, white, male idiot in his mid-thirties, I’ll gratefully leap into that dog pit with a nice, big, fat, juicy pork chop tied around my neck. No fucking problem!

Some people are saying that these women are selling out their celebrity status to satisfy their motherly whims.

Yeah. And?

Not that I’m one to jump to celebrities defense or anything, but who fucking cares? Madonna would sell out for the cool side of a pillow, so why is everybody shocked that she would use her celebrity super powers to sidestep the odd law in getting herself a fashionable Third World baby? Heaven’s forbid the child should ever later regret being taken away from his mud puddle and delivered into wealth and opportunity. Isn’t that every orphan’s dream?

I should know, my sister watched ‘Little Orphan Annie’ every day for a solid year as a child!

Shit, I’m 34 years old and have parents and I get disappointed when I don’t wake up in some four-poster bed in some lavish Irish castle.

Stupidlousybrokeparents…

If I were Madonna and had, like, a zillion dollars – I’d adopt too. Lord knows it’s to her advantage. Over the years, Madonna’s squish mitten has been worked over so much that you could hold a field practice for the whole Denver Bronco’s football team in there.

Why wouldn’t she give herself the break and just adopt instead?

No muss – no fuss.

To retaliate, Angelina Jolie is set to announce that she plans to adopt each and every surviving student at Virginia Tech. That’ll really show them who means business when it comes to global charity!

If I had a little bit better of an income, I’d be interested in getting me a Third World baby too.

Something in a, oh, I don’t know…something in a Malaysian AIDS orphan maybe, or an orphaned war casualty from Sierra Leone. You know - something hip and now.

Unfortunately, things have been a little tight since they have assigned a security guard to the wishing well at the local mall, so the best I could do would be for an abandoned street kid from the New Jersey projects.

Not exactly the exotic accessory en vogue these days.

* Apparently, Calista’s arms are so thin and weak that she cannot actually hold or support the child, but instead, hired a team of around-the-clock Sherpa nannies to look after the child on trips out.

April Tool's

2007-04-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

So far; so good.

It’s been three whole days since April Fool’s, and yet, somehow, I’ve managed to refrain from kicking anybody in the jewels, setting anything on fire, or dropped any heavy objects from highway overpasses.

Yay me.

April Fool’s Day, you see, is the Holy Grail holiday for assholes. The one day of the year where every retard on the planet suddenly decides he’s Jerry Lewis.

Even the most cantankerous, humorless, and spiteful sourpuss can dust off his rubber chicken and be an instant comedic god. How did such a noble concept for a nationally recognized holiday go so wrong? From the moment you leave the house you are constantly confronted by these unfunny moolyaks who are attempting to yuck it up as if they were a regular Robin Williams on meth.

Only one fucking problem – they’re not.

But I think this year it’s safe to say that April Fool’s Day has successfully passed without incident or violent injury.

Like every other holiday, I hate April Fool’s Day. When exactly did our culture go tits up and resort to celebrating holidays involving fake vomit, whoopee cushions, and plastic piles of dog shit? Or do they just make up these asinine holidays on the spot?

How then did all this madness get started anyway?

Well, although still open to debate, it’s most commonly accepted that April Fool’s Day originated back in 1582, when Pope Gregory XII ordered a new calendar (The Gregorian Calendar) created to replace the old Julian Calendar in use at the time.

First off, how fucking cool is that to wake up one morning and decide: “you know, I feel like a new calendar today”? Now THAT’S a power trip, baby!

But, anyway, the man in the funny hat wants a new calendar. Up until that time, most ancient cultures celebrated their New Year’s Day on or around April 1st, which closely follows the vernal equinox on March 20th or 21st.

Why? Who knows? It was good enough for the Romans and it was good enough for the Hindu’s, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for Pope Gregory. No, sir! Pope Gregory wanted his New Years Day on January 1st – and so, SHAZAM! We had the new calendar year that we have now.

France adopted the new calendar almost immediately. No real surprise there, right? The thing is, and as explanation has it, many people either refused to accept the new date, or did not learn about it, and continued to celebrate New Years Day on the original April 1st despite what the Pope was peddling at the time.

Here’s another prime example of ancient cultures being completely asleep at the wheel. Imagine being so ignorant to the times in which you live that you somehow fail to hear, or understand, that New Year’s Day had officially been moved four months early.

Definitely to your advantage to write that shit down, don’t ya think?

Other people began to make fun of these traditionalists, or “bumpkins”, as I prefer to call them, and attempted to send them on “fool’s errands” or trying to trick them into believing something false. So, in essence, it’s a holiday dedicated primarily to teasing stupid people.

How fucking beautiful is that?

An entire holiday completely revolving around the tormenting of poor, unfortunate retards everywhere. Funny, then, how the French were so quick to adapt this practice. You’d think that what with such a large canvass to cover as it was, they might frown upon inciting public pranking riots in the streets by it’s general populace. But what do I know?

Eventually, the practice is said to have spread throughout the rest of Europe. There’s only one problem with this whole scenario is that England did not adopt the new Gregorian calendar until 1752, and yet, the April Fool’s Day tradition was well established before then.

Uh-oh!

Another explanation was then put forward by Joseph Boskin, a professor of history at Boston University. He explained that the practice began during the reign of Constantine, when a group of court jesters and fools told the Roman emperor that they could do a better job at running the empire.

Pardon? They told who what?

I don’t know about anyone else, but if I were Emperor Constantine, I’d have castrated the little fuckers for daring to openly criticize my total and absolute authority. In fact, I’d hunt down courts jesters and fools everywhere and have them roasted alive. So much so, that comedians today would be born with third degree burns.

Instead, we’d be celebrating ‘Roast An Idiot’ Day on April 1st. I wouldn’t exactly have made him king for a day or anything!

But Constantine, however, was amused, and did just that. He allowed a jester named Kugel to be made king for a day. Kugel passed an edict calling for absurdity on that day, and the custom became an annual event.

Yeah. Like I’d ever let that happen.

Unfortunately, though, Boskin himself was full of April Fool’s bullshit. So the chances of this actually happening were slim to none.

It is worth noting, however, that many different cultures have had days of foolishness around the start of April, give or take a couple of weeks. The Romans had a festival named Hilaria on March 25th, rejoicing in the resurrection of Attis – and you can just well imagine what kinds of kinky shit the Romans got up to then! The Hindu calendar has Hopi, and the Jewish calendar has Purim. Perhaps it’s something about that time of year, with its turn from winter to spring that brings out the complete and utter jackass in everyone.

Everyone but this complete and utter jackass, that is.

April Fool’s Day is just another excuse to barricade myself indoors, safely stowed away to weather the storm.

It’s a good thing we Canadians are not allowed to arm ourselves in public, otherwise I’d be going all ‘Walker: Texas Ranger’ on every dipshit, moron, and rhubarb that should ever make the fatal mistake of shocking me with a joy buzzer, or asking me to pull their finger.

POW!

“Aprils Fools to you too, motherfucker!”