Monday, December 8, 2008

Screw My Ex-Girlfriend ... Please!!

(photo may appear different than actual ex-girlfriend)

I am currently seeking someone to mount my former girlfriend, who - for the purposes of this post - we shall call Skipper. Please roger her soundly!


Must be able to live up to the high rogering standards set fifteen years ago.
Must live in the Barrie-Midland-Orillia triangle. It is much like the Bermuda triangle except fashion sense, instead of ships or planes, tends to disappear.
Must, every once in a while, be willing to take her to a movie or dinner. Make it look like an actual relationship.
Must be able to make Skipper laugh, living up to the high funniness standards set fifteen years ago.
Must accept a five-year-old who is funnier than I am, and a very tubby two-year-old who likes to give people the finger. And let's face it - what's funnier than a two-year-old giving people the finger? Maybe a two-year-old punching someone in the groin - then giving them the finger - but that's the Holy Grail of funny. I doubt we will see it in our lifetime.
Must drink less than the low standards set fifteen years ago.


Will put out after the second date if you get her drunk. Will put out on the first date if she's super drunk and you're buying -- but she won't do anything "icky". Don't want to spring for drinks? You're a cheap bastard ... but she will give it up within four dates
Will not be completely intolerable. Unless you call her, loaded, from another city claiming you won't be able to visit her as "you have important work to do."
Will, apparently, put up with your "foolishness and shenanigans."
Will make a nice pasta sauce.
Will find your flatulence - or flatulence related humour - terribly amusing.

Reply below (That's What She Said) with your age, employment status and ... well, that's about it.
If you're on the right side of fifty and have a job, you're pretty much in, dude.
High Five!

Friday, November 21, 2008

Guns N' Roses
Chinese Democracy

Better (and by better I mean paid) minds than mine have declared that Chinese Democracy is the last CD you will ever buy unless you're drunk and enjoy cruising garage sales.

"It's the last album that will be marketed as a collection of autonomous-but-connected songs, the last album that will be absorbed as a static manifestation of who the band supposedly is, and the last album that will matter more as a physical object than as an Internet sound file."

So writes Chuck Klosterman on The A.V. Club's website.
I recommend you read his essay books Fargo Rock City and Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. He has a new novel, Downtown Owl, that I've not read. I can't seem to find a free, pirated copy.
But I digress.
The fact that I am reviewing Chinese Democracy two days before the release date -- despite losing all my music industry contacts after the ... unpleasantness -- suggests Mr. Klosterman is overly optimistic.
But I'll concede his point.

Ah irony. If Mr. Axl Rose had released this album ten years earlier, I suspect he would have shifted several million more units. To Axl's credit, I suspect he doesn't care.

Fifteen years in the making, the album features fifteen current, former and guest musicians. It allegedly cost thirteen (sorry, not fifteen) million dollars to produce.

I quite like it.

Is it better than Appetite For Destruction, which took 1/15 the time and at least 1/45 the money to produce?
Not in fifteen years. Not in fifteen thousand years. Not in fifteen million years.
Despite my hipster snobbery I think Appetite For Destruction is one of the five (sorry, not fifteen) best albums of the 'eighties.
It was raw ... undeniably misogynistic ... incredibly vulgar ... and occasionally kinda vulnerable. It kicked bush party ass from Coldwater to Washago.
I wasn't well-travelled as a youth.
I got drunk to the sound of Welcome To The Jungle. I once got laid while Sweet Child O' Mine was on playing on a boom-box. I got in a fist-fight and tumbled down a flight of stairs while listening to Rocket Queen.

But Chinese Democracy is quite nice too.

It isn't fair to compare the two albums given my advanced age. I never get in fights, rarely get laid and, okay, often still get drunk. I'd like to suggest the government grant me a stipend to observe today's teens boozing, brawling and screwing and document the soundtrack. Given Stephen Harper's attitude towards the arts ... this seems unlikely.

It's no surprise that Chinese Democracy is over-produced. Thankfully, it isn't over-produced in an Electric Light Orchestra way. It is over-produced in a Brian Wilson taking to his bed because he couldn't make a better album than The Beatles way.
Chinese Democracy, for what it's worth, is a better listen than Wilson's disappointing thirty-year delayed Smile.

The first and title track, despite 79 (sorry, not 15) seconds of opening self indulgence, commences to rock and rock fairly well.

The second track, Shackler's Revenge, sounds like Nine Inch Nails lite, Is Pretty Hate Machine the reason Axl has been compulsively re-making this album for the last fifteen years?

The third track, Better. would make you think so ... until they knock off the faux industrial crap and make a song that would have stood out on Use Your Illusion I or II.

Street of Dreams, disproves Axl's homophobia. Clearly the man is in love with Freddie Mercury. This song is really very good.

If The World - the fifth song on Chinese Democracy - demonstrates Axl's love of porno bass lines and crappy soundtrack songs. We all love Bree Olsen, buddy, but few of us watch her sexual shenanigans while listening to Kenny Loggins.

There Was A Time is an 'apology' song directed towards either ex-wife Erin Everly, ex-girlfriend Stephanie Seymour or ex-guitarist Slash. It is unclear whether he is offering or demanding said apology

Catcher In The Rye rocks despite sounding like a mixture of Journey and vintage Elton John threatening to shoot people in the face.

Song number eight - Scraped - sounds like Kip Winger was given a modern recording studio. Yes, that is an insult.

Riad N' The Bedouins is one half as provocative and one fourth as catchy as Killing An Arab by The Cure. The cheap joke is a substitute for valid criticism as the song made me feel nothing.

Sorry is once again directed towards Mr. Rose's ex-loves and Slash. It is a pleasant enough song. If Mr. Rose is handing out apologies to someone, hopefully it is Slash. He would be of more help at this point.

Song number eleven, the much bootlegged I.R.S. doesn't sound as as angry at a government agency who would dare take Axl's money away as I would like. Perhaps it is about something else. I don't know. I've been drinking. Once again: cheap joke = I felt nothing.
Madagascar - song number twelve - soars and it rocks until Axl throws in a sample from Martin Luther King.
I like MLK as much as the next smug white Canadian but it doesn't fit in the context of the song. If this is Rose's apology for his racist song One In A Million, consider the debt unpaid.

This I Love again disproves Axl's homophobia. Clearly the man is in love with Elton John. When Axl embraces his inner homo, his songs turn out very well.

The last song, Prostitute, starts off sounding like Depeche Mode ... until it starts to rock and continues rocking until it soars to a Rockin' climax. Rock!

As previously stated, I doubt Axl Rose cares how many people buy his album. I think he wants to create art ... and that is commendable.

I'll likely only listen to Chinese Democracy a couple of times then forget about it. As I grow older, fatter and more musically diverse, Guns N' Roses are forced to fight a (losing) battle with Miles Davis, The Carpenters and Ray Charles for my listening time.

But If my musical options were Nickleback. Taylor Swift and T-Pain?
I would never stop listening to Chinese Democracy.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Nonsense 101: A Frenchman's Fabulous Failure ... the Flying Flea!

Henri Mignet (1893 - 1965) was a brave man.
As a brave man with bad eyesight, an obsessive nature and an abnormal interest in aviation, I'm surprised he lived as long as he did.
Some of his acolytes were not as lucky.

During World War I, French radio operator Henri Mignet - rejected from the airforce due to his unsatisfactory eyeballs - talked a mechanic into letting him taxi down a runway.
The silly bugger decided to take off when it came time to stop. He was airborne for a few seconds ... and landed the plane on it's back.
Both Mignet and the mechanic were punished.
I'd like to think Mignet felt guilty about dragging other people into his aeronautic shenanigans. History shows, however, that he dragged a bunch of idiots (with whom I relate) into his idiocy. Killed a bunch of 'em too. Good riddance. People like myself need to be thinned from the herd.
Piggybacking on Charles Lindbergh's famous Trans-Atlantic flight in 1927, Mignet designed and published the plans for the HM 8. It didn't fly - much like HM 1 through HM 7.

By 1935 he published the plans for the HM 14. Unlike the previous thirteen models, this one could actually fly for short periods of time. He found things like ailerons, rudder pedals and engine cowls offensive -- they could fly off at any time,
Unlike the extra wings, of which he was so very fond.
He named his aircraft the' Pou de Ciel'.
English translation? The Sky Louse - because, as Mignet said, it "made people scratch their heads." We'll call it the flying Flea for alliterations sake.

Thousands of people bought Mignet's plans. Hundreds of people actually built the plane. Of the few dozens that actually got the plane off the ground? All of them crashed - many of them died.
If the Sky Louse pilot was lucky he went into a steep dive, unable to avoid gravity and an unforgiving earth. If the pilot was unlucky, he went into an upside-down flight pattern until the fuel ran out - sending him into an unforgiving earth after pant crapping terror.

Mounting casualties and common sense has still not prevented people from idolizing Mignet.
Flying Flea websites and groups where people - uggh - meet to socialize with one another are still fairly prevalent.
Thankfully it is mostly contained to New Zealand where people - or sheep that can access the internet - don't know any better.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

If you need a band name ... take one of these.

If you are thinking of starting a rock 'n' roll combo - and who isn't in these troubled times- then feel free to use one of these uber-rockin' band names.
I'll be calling my band Big Scary Negro -- so Hands off unless you are a large, frightening person of African descent.
Otherwise, consider this a name grabbing free-for-all. All this shit I just made up must go!

Walkerton Popsicle

Sweet and Deadly!
For non-Canadians, the town of Walkerton had a water quality crisis with eight unfortunate results. In truth, this is a fairly tasteless joke.

Fur Sausages

Have you ever seen a cat vomit?

The Magnificent Trouser Devils

Are they devils who have magnificent trousers? Or are they Trouser Devils that are magnificent?
Nobody knows except the fictional band.

Daddy Issues

I'd have never gotten laid without the fact that the chicks have Daddy Issues in spades. Oh, that and my old man was a teacher in Catholic school and his former students wanted to subvert his authority. God Bless You, archaic superstitious educational system.
The uniforms are pretty hot too.

Miracle Groin

I thought I heard Jesse Jackson say this on Larry King when interviewed about Barrack Obama's recent presidential victory.
I suspect I misheard.
But it would be cool if that is what he said.

The Beatles

It's like an animal - but the spelling is changed because the music has a beat. Get it? Get it?
Personally, I prefer Johnny and the Moondogs,

Bossy Twat

Thank you Barb for the inspiration. I think we all know why.

The Lapplanders

Because reindeer is good eatin'.
Every Christmas when I was young, my father would haul out a rifle, clean it, and then pretend to telephone Fred's Meat Market and ask them how much they paid for reindeer meat.
Good Lord!
Judging from the above posts I think I may have Daddy issues.
He did always assume I was an idiot.

By The Way:
I hope all you Canadians spent a minute in silence, on this Remembrance Day, for the men (and a couple of women) who died for our freedom.
It took more 'nads than I have to ship out and risk death in somewhere that isn't my living room.
Plus, it is one of our few holidays not based entirely on fictional people.
Thanks, veterans. Without you I might not have the right to spout this nonsense.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Saturday, November 1, 2008

He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part IV : Happy Halloween

As improbable as it seems ... Slappy, Stinky and I were hired to babysit two children one Halloween about 14 years ago.
"Well, this seems improbable," I said to no one in particular. "Very improbable indeed."
"No more improbable than when the wealthy dowager hired us to fix her plumbing" replied Slappy.
"I do regret how that turned into a giant food fight." said Stinky. "There was pie all over the place when we left. Did we ever get paid for that gig?"
"Quiet, you chuckleheads," I barked. "There'll be no food fights tonight. We'll just make sure these two kids aren't horribly mutilated until their parents get home and then we're free and clear with fifteen Canadian dollars and two popsicles each from the freezer."

Things went pretty easily at first. To amuse ourselves we mocked the children -- whose names, ages and genders escape me -- about their appearance, grades and prospects in life. After Blue Velvet was over, we sent them to bed with a bag of baby carrots and a mimosa.
"This is when we make the easy money," said Slappy, pulling a bottle of Scotch from his duffle bag and putting his feet on the coffee table.
"Amen, brother," said Stinky and I. We drank heavily for thirty minutes before the first phone call.
Riiiiiiing ... Riiiiing ...
"Have you checked the children? He He He He," asked the distorted voice on the telephone.
"No," I replied and put the phone back on it's cradle.
"Who was that," asked Slappy?
"Child welfare, I think."
"Cheers," yelled Stinky.

The drinking of Scotch inevitably turned into the drinking of Brandy. Twenty-five minutes passed while we watched Rocky and Bullwinkle on The Cartoon Network.
Riiiiiiing ... Riiiiiing ...
"Have you checked the children now," asked the distorted, yet somehow impatient, voice on the telephone?
"Not yet," I admitted. "I'm kinda watching something right now. Can I call you back?"
The man on the phone sighed. "Will you check the children eventually?"
"Yeah, yeah ... I'll get to it ... who are you ... my mother? Christ!" I slammed the phone down.
Stinky asked, "Who was that?"
"Escaped mental patient who used to live here," I replied.
"Cheers," yelled Slappy.

We ran out of Brandy and moved onto Peppermint Schnapps and old episodes of The Twilight Zone.
Riiiiiing ... Riiiiiing ...
"What about now? Have you checked the children? You really should check the children. Really, You are not very good babysitters" said the distorted, impatient and somewhat condescending voice on the phone.
"Do they need another mimosa," I asked? "We have some Peppermint Schnapps if they can't sleep."
"This just isn't worth it anymore," replied the distorted, impatient and condescending voice. I think he was on the verge of tears.
"Who was that," asked Stinky and Slappy in unison?
"Don't know," I replied. "But I suspect he was wearing an old-timey hockey mask."
"Now you're mixing you're horror movie metaphors," said Slappy.
Stinky just shook his head. "Sad ... just sad."

We moved on to Everclear and tasteful lines of cocaine. The rest of the night was fairly uneventful until the parents got home and they found ...

... their kids safe and sound but a strongly worded note in the kitchen ...

"Dear Homeowners,
Really? You let these wankers look after your children?
For shame!
These idiots couldn't look after a gold fish. The only reason I didn't unmercifully slaughter your children is because greater horrors will await them if these three ... dare I say stooges ... babysit them again.

Yours in Christ,

Stereotypical Homicidal Maniac"

We didn't get our fifteen Canadian dollars that night but I made sure I stuffed as many popsicles down my pants as I could before we fled into the night.

But that's another story.

Happy Halloween.

Hockey game Interupted by Flying Dildos and Vulgar Chants

I don't have anything to add to this story from Ireland's Herald newspaper ... except my Google News seems odder than most:

THINK of ice hockey and the image of burly men with missing teeth and bad haircuts comes to mind, not the celebrity phenomena of sex tapes.
However, a sex tape featuring a Finnish ice hockey player led to a Swedish league game being delayed several times last week after the ice became littered with sex toys.
Fans of the AIK hockey team in Stockholm brought the items to the arena for a game against the visiting Leksand.
Fans held up profane banners and a giant inflatable penis in an attempt to unsettle Leksand defender Jan Huokko.
Earlier this year, an explicit video of Huokko (34) and his girlfriend having sex made it onto the internet after his mobile phone was stolen.
Ahead of the match against Leksand, the website for AIK's unofficial supporter group told fans to bring sex toys to the match to remind Huokko of the sex scandal.
A Swedish paper reported that the AIK organisation knew about the fans' plan but decided not to intervene.
"We heard mention of it, but decided that it would only be worse if we went out and told the fans they were absolutely not allowed to throw dildos on the ice," said AIK club head Mats Hedenstrom.
Vulgar chants directed at Huokko continued through-out the match, which Leksand lost 3-2.

I just can't make that any funnier. It is beyond my talent.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I Hate Snow

Apropos of nothing - I do hate snow and we got some untimely mother fucking snow today:

Either Google News is drunk ... or I am.

I'd put my money on me. Employees of large corporations find it hard to get drunk at the same time. It's a scheduling thing.
In fact, I'd wager the rest of my whisky that I am the one who is loaded.
Admittedly, there isn't much left to bet with.
If it were not for my Google News page, I would know very little of the world ... until I watched the Daily Show.
If I only got my news from the Jon Stewart I'd very likely turn out to be a smart-ass liberal Jew.
As everyone should know ... I'm a smart-ass liberal athiest -- until I get myself into trouble in which case I'm a smart-ass liberal agnostic.
Actually, if being a smart-ass liberal Jew would get me in good with Jehovah I'd give that a shot. I might get more stand-up comedian work. That Woodsy Allen guy was funny before he fucked his step-daughter.

(note to self: don't fuck step-daughter)

Oy Vey. I feel like a schmuck but look at several of my Google News headlines. This is the kind of news I have delivered to my computer every morning. I'd like to think it is the fault of Google but ... quite frankly ... it is not. I chose the news I receive.
I'm clearly a douchebag.

Here it is:

Obama: McCain just making 'stuff' up - 6 hours ago
MIAMI - White House frontrunner Barack Obama lashed his Republican rival John McCain on Tuesday, accusing him of just making "stuff" up as time runs out before election day in two weeks.

Zac Efron Turns 21; Can Now Legally Drink, Gamble and Be Groped... - 20 Oct 2008
Zac Efron turned 21 over the weekend. And while the dreamy-eyed king of the OMG crowd is finally old enough to bootleg for his High School Musical pals, Zefron is still as squeaky clean as ever.

Anyone for squid Jell-O?
Vancouver Sun - 23 hours ago
Academic Honours I The first step in raising a leatherback sea turtle in captivity is to stop the endangered creature from continually hitting its head on the walls of its tank.

Mistrial in Spears Case
New York Times - 1 hour ago
After four deadlocked jury votes and eight hours of deliberation preceded by two days of testimony in Los Angeles Superior Court, a mistrial has been declared in the case of Britney Spears’s driver’s license, The Associated Press reported

Nunziata denies kicking ex-wife's boyfriend
Toronto Star - 3 hours ago
Former Liberal MP and one-time mayoral candidate John Nunziata has been charged with assault after what he describes as an altercation with his ex-wife's boyfriend.

Maple Leafs say talk of second team in Toronto just speculation
The Canadian Press - 11 hours ago
TORONTO - The Maple Leafs are dismissing talk of a second NHL team in Toronto as little more than speculation.

Answers to the headlines?

Yeah he is, but John McCain is desperate. I hope America doesn't pat itself on the back too much if it elects a minority leader. They are still behind the curve. African nations have had white leaders for ages.
Still, I don't think McCain is lying when he says Barrack Obama is a gay guy who freaked out, shaved his head and kicked
Michelle's ex-boyfriends while banging turtles on the head and wanting to place a new hockey team in Toronto.

Who is Zac Efron? Is he on that Scrubs show I like so much? Good for him for remaining a (lady) virgin. They don't count as visitors if they come through the back door.

No squid Jell-O for me. Well ... I'll try it for fun if there is vodka involved. Squid turtle head Jell-O shots anyone?

Leave Britney Alone. I said it on YouTube and I'll say it now.

I always thought John Nunziata was a freak. In journalism school I once had the opportunity to interview him in a tree outside of his ex-wife's bedroom. Wait. That was Toronto city councillor Case Ootes.
Same principle.

Put the hockey team in the City of Hamilton first. They need something to take their minds off Jack Layton's recent poor showing and the bloody awful smell of their city.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Celebrate ... Good Times ... C'mon

A brief post:

I am now officially semi-full time employed.
I shan't name my place of employment for fear my employer will Google my name and see my previous posts about gobbling mushrooms and lawn jockey theft. I'd like to make it past the three month probationary period.
Suffice it to say, I'm tangentially involved in The Arts (screw you Stephen Harper) and feel ... well ... hopeful and happy. I don't have to sell anyone an extended warranty to make decent money.
Huh. Who knew? Not me.
Sorry to my Travian alliance (oh, don't ask) but I won't be online 18 hours a day any longer. Buck up Freakazoid43, you can still e-mail me. Keep building up your crannies and don't bother making troops until your production levels are over 200.
I think this job is pretty cool. Ask me again in six months. I think I'll still think it is pretty cool.
Then again, I get jaded pretty quickly.
But I'll bet you all of my Christmas presents this year that I will feel better about myself than I did last year at this time.
Cheers to me. Huzzah!

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Nonsense 101: A Very Creepy Open Love Letter

I'm taking a different tack this month. I'm giving props to someone who pointed out other people's nonsense.
That's always impressive.
It was made more impressive by the fact she was nine-years-old at the time.
We might as well complete the impressiveness hat trick -- she grew up to be incredibly hot.

Ms. Emily Rosa should relax before she wastes a lot of money on anti-stalking security. My drunkeness, laziness and inability to enter the United States (as my Grade 13 essay on The Grapes of Wrath is still in my permanent record) renders me relatively harmless. I promise to worship you from afar.

Her physical beauty should not overshadow the fact that she debunked a bunch of quacks and New Agey wieners in the Journal of the American Medical Association before she entered high school. With that accomplishment on her resume, I'm sure I'd find her sexy even if she wasn't ... well ... so damned sexy.

But enough of my creepy perversions.

Emily, in 1996, was searching for a sixth grade science project. She happened to glance at the TV screen where her mother, a registered nurse, was watching a videotape about therapeutic touch. This is a practice where 'healers' interact with the 'human energy field' by passing their hands over the body of the afflicted without actually touching them. Practitioners of therapeutic touch, oblivious to principles of modern science, claimed this relieved anxiety and pain.

Emily found her science project.

She designed an experiment in which she and the healer were separated by cardboard with two arm holes. She then decided, by the flip of a coin, whether to put her hand over the healer's left hand or the right hand. The healer was asked to decide where Emily's hand was hovering. If the healer could detect Emily's 'human energy field', they could easily tell where Emily's hand was.


Emily was able, through her mother's connections, to recruit twenty-one 'healers'. Her mother posits they didn't see a nine-year-old as a threat.

Oops. I think you know where this is headed.

In 280 tests, the twenty-one healers identified the correct location of Emily's hand forty-four percent of the time. The Law of Averages states that if they had flipped a coin -- like Emily -- they would have been right about fifty per cent of the time.

Two years later, Emily (along with her mother and a science writer) published her findings in the Journal of the American Medical Association.

Sadly, therapeutic touch is still enabled by the gullible in healing and medical clinics worldwide. It is still taught at prominent universities and schools of nursing.

Still ... Thank you, Emily.

And thanks to 'Penn and Teller's Bullshit!' (season six, episode two) for pointing me in the direction of my One True (I promise I'll never try to contact you) Love.

Okay ... I Count Ten ...

... Out of twenty-two.
Okay. If I'm being honest -- ten full-time, five part-time.
If we only count the full-time sins, I'm still at forty-five per cent. Not too shabby, if you ask me. Although one of my sins may be lying ... or ... drunkeness ... or simply watching Toronto vs Detroit on Leafs TV.
You never know.
Still, I dare you to beat forty-five per cent.
The way I see it, you may as well have nearly half of these attributes if you are going to end up in hell rather than just being ,,, say ... a simple money-lover and condemned to eternal damnation. Why not have a wank and be hypocritical while you're at it?
Try to guess which ones apply to me (hint: it isn't child molester but everything else is fair game).

Friday, September 26, 2008

He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part III : What Is With This Guy and Lawn Ornaments?


Large amounts of rice wine can make a man do strange things.
It can lead to excessive politeness and bowing.
it can lead to really disturbing animation and overzealous work ethics.
Or it can lead to the kidnapping, repainting and subsequent return of a neighbours' yard decoration in a fit of self-righteous anger.

In my defense (not Slappy's - I have barely enough defense for myself) the lawn jockey was pretty damned offensive -- 1940's Warner Bros. cartoon offensive, in fact.
And we were quite drunk on the aforementioned sake. We were going through a pretentious phase. We wanted to get loaded but we had to set ourselves apart from all the other drunken man-children populating Central Ontario. No Black Label for me and Slappy, it had to be sake.
Don't judge. Drinking strange alcoholic beverages is just part of growing up. How do you think The Dr. McGillicuddy's Peach Schnapps Empire stays in business?
It stood to reason that we would steal a lawn jockey from the next door neighbour. We were two crazy non-conformists. We were drinking for SOCIAL JUSTICE! We were drinking for RACIAL EQUALITY! We were drinking because WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY POT!
What else were we going to do? Support our local sports team?
I'm not sure if we had the idea of painting this symbol of oppression -- whom we affectionately dubbed Jonathan Smythe-Davies Sr. -- when we emancipated him. We likely just wanted to keep property values artificially high ... but the binge continued. Barbara was surprisingly well disposed to our cries of "Fetch us more Japanese hooch from a licensed distributor of said beverages, wench." She's a trooper.
Especially since we were wearing her sun dresses at the time.
Slappy, being of an artistic persuasion, had some white paint lying around, I, being of a rockin' persuasion, had some Public Enemy discs lying around. One thing led to another ... and a political statement was born.
The thing that stood out most about Slappy's whitefication of Jonathan Smythe-Davies Sr. was the detail he put into the job. I tend to do non-work related things in a half assed manner. Slappy veers more towards the hilariously triple assed. He didn't just slap on some white paint. He changed the eyes. He changed the lips. He used texture and shading to change the cheek bones.
The man is a god damned artistic genius - although I doubt this made it into his portfolio.
We painted an 'X' on his cap (as was the style at the time) and "It's a black thing ... you wouldn't understand" on the back of his jacket. We put him back facing the neighbour's front door two nights later.
The next morning, Barbara, Girl Detective, was outside trying to corral the cat when she noticed a police car at the curb. She looked around the hedge and saw two officers talking to the aggrieved home owners. From this point on, all quotes are approximated.

Probably Racist Lady Next Door: "We wouldn't have called you but we thought it was part of something larger."
Police Officers "Larger? What do you mean larger?"
PRLND: "Well, we thought it might be gang related."
PO: (trying not to laugh) "Well, I don't know about that but they certainly did a good job."

At the time, there may have been fifteen people of African descent in Orillia. Slappy makes me look like Malcolm X and I am generally the whitest guy in any room I walk into.
Still, I was proud to be the vanguard of Afro-Canadian gang activity in Central Ontario. With apologies to The Simpsons writers, I'd have called us the Christ Punchers.

I worked at the local weekly newspaper at the time. It didn't make it into the police blotter but I was tempted to interview the bigots next door for a story about escalating gang violence in Orillia. Sadly, I lacked the follow through (or the cojones, your choice) and the story died.

J. Smythe-Davies was ultimately repainted black and placed behind a padlocked fence.
We should have freed him. Repainting him was a definite sign our neighbours were douchebags.
Unfortunately, Slappy and I eventually sobered up. It is one of my life's largest regrets.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I, Sarah Palin, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

God help us all.

Friday, September 19, 2008

An Excerpt From The Aging Hipster's Failed "Asian Adoption" Essay

Wait a minute. Don't judge me. You guys do worse to your cats?
Am I right?
I don't even know why I included this photo but... if you know a better way to keep your cat from meowing incessantly, please let me know.

I have to cater to this fuckng cat. I make sure someone (not me - I can't stand the smell) feeds him.

I give him affection (when I'm loaded).

I make sure he can go in and out the front door (which Barb is usually closest to) every five minutes, but still...

You're damn right I get him drunk every once in a while.
If not for me, how would he ever raise his little kitty cat self esteem?

I'm doing him a favour. If it were not for me, he'd be stuck in some little kitty cat rut. He'd spend most of his life thinking he will never achieve his little kitty cat dreams.

Without me getting him loaded, he'd never dream of writing the Great Kitty-American Novel.

If I didn't get this cat drunk, he'd never get any pussy! Get what I mean there? You see the pun I included?
You did? Good.

If I didn't feed him liquor he would never dream of being the first kitty cat rock star - those fucking cats who meow Christmas jingles don't count.

Fucking sell-outs!

You think so too?

Well ... Good. Please consider my request to give me one of your excess children. I will even take a girl. I promise I'll raise her to be an obnoxious socialist busy-body.

Gimme an Asian Baby,

Yours in Christ,

The Aging Hipster

Monday, September 8, 2008

The Fall Fair Baby Competition is Decadent and Depraved

(Editor's note: The following crossed our desk after being rejected by all of the major media outlets in the Orillia-Barrie-Midland Triangle. While we have yet to locate the author, billed only as Hunter S. Thompson's non-union Mexican equivalent, The Aging Hipster felt his story needed to be told.)

It was somewhere around the sheep display when the drugs began to take hold.
Damned good thing too -- all that hay was kicking the hell out my allergies.
The air was full of foul carnival music and barkers promising Def Leppard mirrors and giant combs to any man who could knock over three ill-weighted milk bottles with a softball. I elbowed my way through a sea of ugly hillbillies and their spawn getting their annual compulsive infusion of cotton candy and blue ribbon quilts. I was already late for the baby photo contest and I needed to be there for two reasons. First - it was an important story. Second - one of the mothers was paying me to heckle the other babies.
I arrived in the converted roller skating rink -- where these babies were to be judged -- and scanned the area for a bar. After five minutes I found a snack bar in the corner that sold domestic beer and boxed wine in plastic cups. I took one of both and thanked the Gods I'd brought a thermos full of mint julep for emergencies.
An odd mixture of yokels and soccer moms were gathered around a booth - the back lined with pictures of lily white babies. Most of the photos seemed professionally taken. Clearly against the rules, but it seems parents who hold their infants up to public scrutiny for their own personal gain have little regard for rules. The pictures were numbered and each had a corresponding Pringles can. The numbered can with the most money took home the prize. It seems my client's money could have been better spent but it was too late for that. I'd already spent the money on mint, bourbon, powdered sugar and a thermos.
Still, I had a job to do and I am nothing if not a professional. "Good Lord," I yelled. "The one on the left looks like he was chewed up by a rat terrier." Stifled laughter from all but one of the soccer moms and outright guffaws from the yokels.
"Does baby nineteen look drunk to you? What kind of monsters get their baby drunk ... AND TAKE PICTURES OF IT?" Even the well-heeled ladies weren't bothering to hide their laughter.
Some kid was dressed in a cowboy hat and bandana. "I'll wager he's never roped a calf in his life," I yelled in a thick southern drawl
"God damn buddy, you a funny guy." said some farmer, slapping me hard on the back, spilling half of my drink on my American flag Chuck Taylors.
"Fuck off BUDDY," I murmured. "I'm working here."
At this point the story becomes very slippery, with many loose ends and dark shadows. I continued taunting infant children to the amusement of the growing crowd until the pageant organizer arrived and pulled me aside. Forty-years-old, paunchy with glasses - he looked like an elementary school vice principal. He looked like something a six-year-old would draw if you asked him to illustrate the concept of humourless.
"What in the name of HOLY FUCK do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "Making fun of all these children who've yet to do you any harm?"
"Just doing my job, sir."
"Do you know what we are going to do to people like you when Stephen Harper gets his majority. Your kind will be locked in cages and forced to fight each other with machetes on the CBC. Now shut the fuck up."
I was shaken. This was a bit heavy to lay on a man with a head full of Benadryl and mint julep. I reacted the only way a reasonable man could.
"Baby 42 has the beady eyes of a paedophile." I yelled.
That's when the rousties came.

I woke up in a ditch on Hwy. 12. I was badly beaten and missing one thermos. I never found out which kid won but I'd bet it was that little bitch dressed up as a pumpkin.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Nonsense 101: To The Moon and Way Fuckin' Beyond Alice!

It's rare that you find a rocket scientist and an occult enthusiast in the same room.
It's downright weird to find them in the same person.

Jack Parsons was just such a weird, weird man.

Born in 1914, Parsons was a college drop out who hated authority. His diary claims he visibly invoked Satan at the age of thirteen. He also had a deep, abiding love for science fiction stories and blowing shit up.

Pretty much the same as myself - except I never got around to putting a man on the moon.

Fast-forward to 1939. Parsons was a member of the not-so-affectionally dubbed Suicide Squad - named for their series of increasingly alarming explosions caused at CalTech while trying to create stable, usable rocket fuel. Their goal was simple: put the human race into outer space.

This was also the year Parsons discovered the writings of famed English Satanist Aleister Crowley. He started invoking the god Pan before every rocket launch. Silly bugger.

Around this time, Parsons also found a new buddy and fellow Crowely enthusiast named L. Ron. You may have heard of him. He and Parsons started a boat dealing company named Allied Enterprises.

Parsons wasn't yet getting far with his rocket fuel experiments - things kept unexpectedly blowing up. He wasn't hurting for money though. In 1942, Parsons' estranged father died leaving him a mansion in in the nice part of Pasadena. Parsons rented out the rooms to "only atheists and those of a Bohemian disposition," according to his newspaper ad.

A man after my own heart, if it were not for the stupid occultism.

Noisy parties and police raids ensued. Parsons was able to win over the cops with his charm, good looks and reputation as a rocket scientist. But, from all accounts, things got plenty weird - lots of nakedness, magicks and substance abuse - over at the Parsons' spread.

An excerpt from a Parsons poem published in an occult magazine in 1943?

"I hight Don Quixote, I live on peyote, marijuana, morphine and cocaine, I never know sadness, but only a madness that burns at the heart and the brain."

As I said, a man after my own heart -- if not for the stupidity and bad poetry. But what the fuck does 'hight' mean?

Parsons started becoming more successful with his rocket fuel experiments. He had a fulfilling relationship with his ex-wife's half sister Betty.
If you listen to devotees of this sorta crap, he was becoming more successful with his magicks. He and Hubbard allegedly completed the Babalon Working spell which ushered in a goddess who led the way to world peace and free love.

Recent events suggest this spell wasn't as effective as Parsons' acolytes may suggest.


His life was finally starting to work out, huh?
Uhh, No.
In 1947, L. Ron Hubbard buggered off with a boat, all the cash from Allied Enterprises and for good measure, Betty - Parsons' girlfriend.
L. Ron Hubbard eventually married Betty and started Scientology with the stolen money.

The official Scientology line is that Hubbard was instructed to 'infiltrate a black magic ring' by the U.S. Navy.
Horseshit! Go ahead and sue me Mr. Cruise.

As the '40s wound down things kept getting worse for Parsons. He was stripped of his security clearance and almost prosecuted for treason since he gave classified documents to the Israeli government, with whom he was negotiating for a rocket guru gig. Parsons was reduced to working for Hollywood movies, making tiny explosive squibs that mimicked a man being shot. But his rocket fuel eventually worked. Ex-Nazi/Future Upstanding American Citizen/Full Time Rocket Scientist Wernher Von Braun cited Parsons as the most influential rocket scientist in history.

Parsons never lived to see his dream of landing a man on the moon, but his rocket fuel discovery was instrumental in putting one there. Jack Parsons blew himself up in 1952.

One newspaper wrote that, "The explosion blew off his right forearm, tore a gaping hole in his jaw and shattered the other arm and both legs."

Some say Jack was killed because he had become an embarassment to the American government.

Some say Scientologists had Jack killed to cover Hubbard's shameful behaviour.

Most say Parsons liked fucking around with explosives and was far too sweaty and high. One friend noted in a Parsons' biography that "Jack used to sweat a lot and [a coffee can in which he was mixing Mercury Fulminate] just slipped out of his hand and blew him up."

Jack Parsons is rarely mentioned inside the rocket scientist community these days but the Parsons Crater on the far side of the Moon has been named after him.

Rest In Peace, you Delusional Genius!

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

I Know What A Prison Lover Ought To Be - Seven Wildly Misinterpreted Songs

1.) Okie From Muskogee - Merle Haggard

"It started out as a joke. We wrote to be satirical originally. But then people latched onto it, and it really turned into this song that looked into the mindset of people so opposite of who and where we were."
So said Merle Haggard when asked about his biggest hit. It describes a 1960s Oklahoma town where 'traditional American values' like football, the Stars and Stripes and respect for authority still reign supreme.
Some claim this is sheer revisionism. I tend to believe Merle.
The length of Haggard's hair does not define him. Neither does his well documented drug ingestion or tail chasing.
But it might give you a hint that he's taking the piss when the first line of the song starts " We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee. We don't take no trips on LSD."
He goes on to sing "We don't make no party out of lovin'. We like holding hands and pitching woo. We don't let hair grow long and shaggy like the hippies out in San Francisco do."
Besides, Haggard saw Johnny Cash's legendary San Quentin shows while doing ten years for holding up a Bakersfield saloon. He says it turned his life around.
I once saw Judas Priest at Maple Leaf Gardens while doing three years in journalism school for reading too much Kerouac. It did fuck all for me.
Who am I to argue?

2.) Short People - Randy Newman

I was nine-years-old when the song Randy Newman's song Short People was released in 1978.
I loved that song. I recognized it -- if not as satire -- than at least a joke.
And I was short and I was ... oh yeah ... NINE-FUCKING-YEARS-OLD!
It's a minor tragedy that the greatest song writer of the last fifty years is primarily known for a novelty song.
It isn't even a slight throw-away song. At it's best, it is a vicious smack down of bigotry. At it's worst, it's a fictional diary of a mad man. Who could take "They got little hands and little eyes, And they walk around tellin' great big lies, Don't want no short people 'round here" seriously?
Anyone under 5'2" in the 1970s, I guess. Midgets, Dwarves and the like used to throw Short People parties where they would throw tiny little eggs and tiny little darts at pictures of Randy Newman. It kinda makes you want to kick tiny little Tom Cruise in his tiny little nuts.
"It was too bad that was my one big hit--a novelty record like The Chipmunks did," Newman recently told the Fredricksburg Free Lance-Star. He hates the damn song now. "It was a hit that did me no good, that did me harm. A bad break."

3.) Every Breath You Take - The Police

Every Breath You Take used to be a very popular first dance wedding song.
I've not personally known anyone whose wedding song was Every Breath You Take.
Mind you, I try not to hang out with stupid people. Especially two stupid people who are about to get married.
The song is about obsession and stalking. It's creepy. It's isn't about everlasting love. It's about a sinister, controlling character whose relationship is ending.
Casual living room poll?
Barb's wedding song: Turbo Lover by Judas Priest
Brian's wedding song? Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash
Also Brian's funeral song, BTW.

4.) Only Women Bleed - Alice Cooper

One might forgive the casual listener for assuming Alice Cooper had the worst intentions with Only Women Bleed.
He wrote songs about welcoming you to his nightmare. He wrote songs about necrophilia and the eventual world domination of man-eating spiders.
This was all on the same album that held Only Women Bleed.
So the song is about cutting up chicks, huh?
At least the song is about menstruation, right?
It's about our patriarchal society in which women do most of the work and get the shitty end of the stick.
Pretty sensitive for a dude with decapitaed dolls and torture equipment as on-stage props if you ask me.
Plus, Etta James covered the song in 1999.
I'll bow to Etta's judgment rather than the wankers who slap Parental Advisory labels on records, thank you.

5.) This Land Is Your Land - Woody Guthrie

It sounds incredibly patriotic. The majesty of America on display:

"This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York Island
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me."

Except Guthrie was a self-confessed socialist. He painted the phrase "This Machine Kills Fascists" on his guitar. He reveled in sticking it to - for lack of a better analogy - The Man.
Witness the verse that usually gets left out by people who conduct choruses of school children:

"In the squares of the city, In the shadow of a steeple;
By the relief office, I'd seen my people.
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking,
Is this land made for you and me?"

And here comes the beautiful, left-wing, property sharing kicker:

"There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted, it said private property;
But on the back side it didn't say nothing;
That side was made for you and me."

see also: Bruce Springsteen's Born In The USA.
Really, Ronald Reagan? You wanted Born In The USA for your re-election song? The first lyrics

"Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
'Til you spend half your life just covering up"

didn't tip you off the song wasn't as patriotic as the title suggested? Alzheimer's Disease may have kicked in by this point, but didn't you have handlers, Ronnie?

Please visit The Library of Congress for other Woody Guthrie songs of which Ronald Reagan would not have approved.

6.) The Summer of '69 - Bryan Adams

Bryan Adams was born in the fall of 1959. Therefore:

"Me and some guys from school
Had a Band and we tried real hard
Jimmy quit and Jody got married
I shoulda known we'd never get far"

never happened unless he and his friends were extremely precocious hillbillies.
The song is just a sophomoric reference to mutual oral sex. Fuckin' grow up, people. Jimmy never quit, Jodi never got married
... I'll wager it was just a bet with his producer about the dirtiest song he could get on Canadian radio.
Hence the closing line "Me and my baby in ... uhh... '69".
I'll wager Mr. Adams record label deemed The Autumn of Piston Fisting slightly not subtle enough.
Despite his obvious pranksterism, Bryan Adams is still a very shitty songwriter.

7.) In-A Gadda-Da-Vida - Iron Butterfly

Often confused with music.
It is not.

I double-dog-dare-ya to add your own examples.
Don't be a pussy.
Say something.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part II: Mushrooms, Mushrooms, Everywhere but Not a Drop to Drink

As a responsible adult I'm not advocating the use of Magic Mushrooms.

As a realist I'm not advocating mixing a batch of them into Campbell's (non-magic) Mushroom Soup and walking the streets of Toronto for nine hours with Slappy and Spanky (not their real names as they lead semi-respectable lives these days).

You know those times when you just have to load up on British Columbian 'shrooms just to shake the cobwebs out?
No? Then go to Hell.
Don't you dare judge me -- if you haven't done this yourself you shouldn't be reading this blog.

Back to the point. Where was I? Oh, yes ... please understand, Slappy and Spanky can never agree on anything. In fact, the only thing I can ever remember them agreeing upon was that we should ingest wood-chippy halucinogenics and wander aimlessly one Saturday afternoon. Once everyone had agreed on THAT basic concept, all unity and harmony flew out the window.

That said, I'll offer a few tips on coping with a halucinogenic walking tour of Canada's biggest city.

Once you exit the building in which you've ingested the above mushrooms, you may feel the urge to look up at the CN Tower and comment that it looks like a big wang.
This is natural.
Feel free to giggle.
No one looks twice at a Toronto street giggler.
Please refrain from lying on your back on the sidewalk, looking up, and snickering, "huh huh huh ... big Toronto wang. Heh, Wangy".
It not only disconcerts the locals ... It really hurts tourism.

As you make your way towards wherever Slappy and Spanky lead you -- be prepared. There will be some sort of Hobo Jungle. In happens in all major cities. Please do not taunt the hobos or offer them whisky that you can not provide. There but for the grace of God -- and the lack of a Conservative majority government -- go you. Don't be such a prick.

These knobs who have filled your head with bad, bad drugs, will walk down the Cherry Beach rent boy stroll. As a confirmed hetrosexualist, don't take that walk with imaginary voices jabbering in your head unless:

a.) You are REALLY secure about your masculinity


b.) You REALLY need the money

Fellas will be cruising and whistling at you.
If you're Straight? Be cool. Take it as a compliment.
If you're a Gay Prostitute? Shake that ass and get the best price you can. If you work out, wear a tank top.

When you get to the lake - take in the scenery. Watch the ships. Contemplate an indifferent Creator vs. the happy mistake of evolution.
Under no circumstances talk to children whose mothers are too negligent to notice their kid wants to hang out with three ugly stoned guys sitting on a dock. Even really fried people recognize this as bad parenting.
Besides, encountering eight-year-old kids -- while more fucked up than you have ever been in your life -- is very bad mojo. I think it says something about that in The Bible.

"Encountereth not the toddlers whilst tripping thy balls off, for it is unseemly in the eyes of God and he shall lower his head and shake it sadly, muttering that he should have given the place to the monkeys."
-Halucinations 4:21

Don't drink Lake Ontario water and claim it's as good as city water. I don't care how thirsty you are. City water is horrible but it does lack a certain amount of feces.

When it starts to get dark, walk up the street, pool your money and hail a taxi cab. Don't care that your taxi driver is having a boxed fried chicken dinner date with his girlfriend. He works hard at a shitty job. He deserves at least that much. Tip him well.

Get dropped off at the nearest bar. Drink as much as you can but don't expect to get drunk - you're still too 'shroomed up. Ignore Slappy and Spanky arguing. Admire the beauty of the waitress in an unfamiliar nonsexual way. Then...
... try to reset
... try to relax
... try to realize you are safe for at least one more day.
... try not to do any more drugs the next morning.

Friday, August 8, 2008

I'm Really Looking Forward to my Upcoming Job as Rock Star.

So much so, in fact that I've already drafted my rider.
Since we're so close, I'll let you have a peek:

This rider is attached and made part of the contract between BRIAN ELLICOTT, herein referred to as the ARTIST and _______________, herein referred to as promoter.

Artist shall be billed as BRIAN ELLICOTT. It shall appear as such in all advertisements, fliers, marquees etc. Artist shall receive 100% headline billing.
Advertising the ARTIST as 'former member of GRAND FUNK RAILROAD' is not acceptable. Mr. Ellicott has never been affiliated with GRAND FUNK RAILROAD or its' later incarnation, GRAND FUNK.

Promoter agrees to provide use of well-lit space, table and chairs. The ARTIST reserves the right to sell crap he has lying around his home at engagement.

Promoter agrees to provide a safe, private space for ARTIST'S use. Promoter agrees to keep all unauthorized males and ugly chicks from entering this area. A bathroom must be located somewhere in the building.

Payment of any and all costs, expenses, losses, litigation, tossed-panty clean-up and damages related to this engagement.

Promoter agrees to supply able bodied, sober security in case the stage is, for lust or outrage reasons, rushed. One guard will be required to escort ARTIST to stage. Two guards will be required to carry ARTIST from stage. In any event the ARTIST deems his security at risk the ARTIST has the right to bugger off and be paid in full.

One (1) hot meal of waffles and sausages is to be provided before show at no ($0) cost to ARTIST. Twelve (12) vending machine sandwiches and tap water are to be provided to crew. Standard buy-out is $25 US/Can/Euro 35/AUD 7000/Yen 15/GBP per person

NOTE: If local/working crew is present, promoter must provide Burger King coupons. Burger King Coupons may be confiscated by ARTIST if high.

In dressing room:
One (1) bottle of chilled vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of room temperature vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of body temperature PRINCE IGOR vodka
Various bourbons
One (1) bottle of local red wine
One (1) bottle of local white wine
Four (4) clean pair of underpants NO FRUIT OF THE LOOM!
One (1) hot-plate
One (1) frying pan
Four (4) slices of pre-buttered rye bread
Three (3) slices of No Name processed cheese. One (1) slice is to be cut in half.
No (0) smoke detectors
In the unlikely event ARTIST does not consume all of above it is to be distributed to local homeless community at cost to promoter.

Promoter agrees to provide and pay for hotel room or find sofa for ARTIST to crash on or about.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Jesus is Just Alright With Me

I was once a child,
You may find that hard to believe.
Okay, you may not. Barb once described me as "a toddler with access to liquor and weapons."
Regardless, as a tyke, my well-meaning but naive mother would drag me to church.
A Baptist church, no less.

And lo, the child was well and truly bored once he realized his Sunday School teachers wouldn't answer questions like, "How did Noah fit dinosaurs onto the Ark?" and "Who did Adam and Eve's children mate with?".
-Stolinations 3:17

The people at the church, with a few exceptions, meant as well as my Mom. My mother, for example, would never picket an abortion clinic. She'd never fag-bash - she wouldn't even say the word 'fag' (she calls them 'funny'. It's kinda cute). She once tried to pass an ordinance to keeps kids from dancing in Price's Corners but quickly forgot her pet project once the cooking sherry wore off.
Like my mother, I'm sure most of these Baptists just wanted my soul saved. What kind of monster wouldn't want to make sure I didn't end up in a lake of fire where torment would be heaped upon torment and the wails of my fellow damned would echo ... blah ... blah ... blah. How very fucking quaint. Thanks for your interest. I actually mean that. Sorry it didn't work for y'all.
However, a few of these people were, for lack of a couple better words, Evil Douchebags.
Like the Sunday School teacher who said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "If you steal a cookie, don't repent and suddenly die -- you'll end up in Hell." What The Fuck? I loved stealing cookies at the age of nine. I lived to steal cookies. Cookie Theft was my raison d'etre. Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll (or at least hidden Playboys, Beer and Blondie's Greatest Hits) were still several months away!
That notion -- that I could be sent to Hell if I choked to death on a stolen cookie -- scared the fuck out of me! I had nightmares I can still vividly picture right now.
The worst of the lot, however, is whoever let the above comics get into my hot little hands.
Written, illustrated and published by Jack T. Chick, these little comic books - about the size of a pack of smokes - were SOLD to the sort of people who wanted to convert other people to Christianity. These books scared me more than any ten saggy-jowled stolen cookie ladies. I was convinced I'd end up in Hell on a technicality.
A little research about Jack Chick, sadly still living, shows he's a Fundamentalist Christian who hates the usual suspects: abortion, drugs, homosexuals, Rock 'n' Roll, Halloween, Harry Potter and Dungeons and Dragons ... and the Catholic Church.
Sadly, he hates the Catholic Church for all the wrong reasons. Chick believes many of the world's problems are deliberately caused by the Catholic Church. He credits the Catholic Church with founding Islam, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and the Jehovah's Witnesses. Also? Starting the Holocaust and founding Communism.
On one hand, the Catholic Church shouldn't have covered up all the altar boy molestation.
On the other hand, they gave us the Catholic school girl uniform.
I'm torn.
I know it seems silly now, but it really did scare me insensible as a child.
Luckily, it also made me think God was kind of a prick.
So here I stand before you now, a liberal athiest with a penchant for celebrating Halloween with my homo friends, dressed as Harry Potter while drunk and listening to Black Sabbath. I played Dungeons and Dragons once -- but I never really took to it.
When Jack Chick dies - as he will soon (he was born in 1924), I will make it a personal life mission to urinate on his grave. I may host a bus tour to do so. Scarred me for life, that fucker did.
Thank you indulging my self indulgence. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled smart aleckry.

P.S. New Paul Westerberg and Randy Newman albums were released today. And yes, the Paul Westerberg album is supposed to sound like that.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Nonsense 101: Folied By Fuckin' Flautists! Fuck!

Don’t get me wrong: Charles Babbage was a very smart man.
He invented the cowcatcher.
He invented the heliograph opthalmoscope to examine the interior of the eyeball.
His liberal thoughts on the division of labour partly inspired Karl Marx to write Das Kapital.
Oh yeah ... and he almost invented the computer in the early 19th Century.
He lacked the proper tools and components – they were not yet invented – but one of his fully functional crunchin’ machines sits in the London Science Museum. In 1991, a buncha nerds following his diagrams built one capable of advanced logarithmic and trigonometric functions.
Nine years after his first schematics, Babbage also invented a printer for his machine. According to the same nerds -- and we have no reason to doubt them -- that would have worked as well.
So it may seem odd to call the grandfather of the modern computer one of history's all-time great fuck ups. It's just that his greatest claim to fame wasn't almost inventing a computer.
It was how much he really fucking hated organ grinders.
I can hear the outcry from the many, many mathemeticians who read this page.
'Go to hell - Charles Babbage was a genius!'
My Response?
'Yes he was a genius -- a genius who was mocked and taunted in the streets because he really fucking hated organ grinders."
Okay ... he didn't hate just organ grinders – he hated street artists of all kinds. He calculated in the London Times that “25% of his working power had been destroyed “ by various buskers.
So Babbage took matters into his own hands. He would scream and chase these musical pests down the street. He would write letter upon letter to London newspapers. He would appeal to Parliament.
And it worked ... in theory.
Legislators passed ‘Babbage’s Act' in 1854 to outlaw the “street nuisances” that had Chuck working at 3/4 of his mental power. Unfortunately for Babbage, his Act wasn’t practical or enforceable. All it did was piss off organ grinders and the people who loved them.
According to J.A.N. Lee in his 1994 Babbage biography …

The public tormented him with an unending parade of fiddlers, Punch-and-Judys, stilt-walkers, fanatic psalmists, and tub-thumpers. Some neighbours hired musicians to play outside his windows. Others willfully annoyed him with worn-out or damaged wind instruments. Placards were hung in local shops, abusing him. During one 80-day period Babbage counted 165 nuisances. One brass band played for five hours, with only a brief intermission. Another blew a penny tin -whistle out his window toward Babbage's garden for a half an hour daily, for "many months".

Clearly, Babbage underestimated the common man’s love of grinding organs. Continues Lee:

When Babbage went out, children followed and cursed him. Adults followed, too, but at a distance. Over a hundred people once skulked behind him before he could find a constable to disperse them. Dead cats and other "offensive materials" were thrown at his house. Windows were broken. A man told him, "You deserve to have your house burnt up, and yourself in it, and I will do it for you, you old villain”.

In defense of Babbage, he may have been – and I’m no doctor – bat shit crazy. He once wrote a letter to the famed English poet Alfred Tennyson in response to his poem 'The Vision of Sin'.

"In your otherwise beautiful poem, one verse reads,
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment one is born.
... If this were true, the population of the world would be at a standstill. In truth, the rate of birth is slightly in excess of that of death. I would suggest:
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment 1 1/16 is born.
Strictly speaking, the actual figure is so long I cannot get it into a line, but I believe the figure 1 1/16 will be sufficiently accurate for poetry."

I suspect Babbige had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
But Babbage was beating his head against the wall about how to build this unbuildable computer -- or Difference Engine, as he called it. He heard out-of-tune penny-whistles outside his window night and day. His government grants were withdrawn because he could not produce this computer and they suspected he was, well, ... bat shit crazy.

He did the only thing a man could do:
Conclude that people suck, twice run for Parliament unsuccessfully as a Whig, become a far-right conservative and then die in 1871, embittered and mocked by street musicians. According to Lee and the London Times:

Even when he was on his deathbed, the organ-grinders ground implacably away.

In 1890, Herman Hollerith, an American inventor, independently came up with the same idea. It was much bulkier and it did far less.
But it worked and, as much as history records, Hollerith was never mocked and taunted in the streets by organ grinders, mimes or puppet shows.

Monday, July 28, 2008

He's troubled ... but I can save him : The Case of the Mixed Up Lawn Gnomes

There comes a point when a man looks back on his life and tries to justify his existence.
He thinks back about the people he has touched - both literally and figuratively. He tries to weigh the good he's done against the harm he has caused. He wonders whether he truly deserved ...

... Wait. You knew that 'touched literally and figuratively' line was a sex joke, right? Of course you did, Gentle Reader. I was wrong to underestimate you ...

... the gift of life that he was, well, gifted with.

In short - Has he gotten up to enough drunken mischief?

The answer is : No.
Of course not. Never enough.

My philosophy is that we were made in the image of our Creator - who happens to be a drunken ne'er-do-well with an odd sense of humour.

So I present to you the first of a monthly feature : My Drunken Shenanigans.

This is partly intended as a monument to a lifestyle that ain't easy. I'm like the Jesus of drinking - I get loaded so you don't have to wear that lampshade any way but vicariously.
Part of this is just trying to explain myself to my two future children, Blind Lemon and Innocent Bystander (isn't that sweet? A boy and a girl).
Truthfully? Most of this is just bragging.

This Month: Whose Fucking Pink Flamingo Is This?
One night. my friend and I who I will call ... (Neal hates it when I use his real name) ... Slappy drank quite a lot of either tequila or saki. I forget. It was twenty years ago but I think we were in our pretentious saki phase when Ne ,,, umm ... Slappy lived in the Crappiest House in Suburbia.
Slappy didn't even know the people who lived upstairs from him ... let alone the people who lived next door who would eventually call the cops ... but that is a lawn ornament-related story for another day.
We came to the conclusion that neighborhoods ain't what they used to be. Do you know the people who live next door to you? Would you be comfortable having them get your mail while away on vacation? Could you borrow a cup of sugar from them without feeling weird?
I thought not.

The only common trait the residents of the street had was an almost fetishistic love of yard decoration.
So we got to ... for lack of a better word ... thinking -- What if we traded everyone's lawn ornaments?
One garden gnome for one harp-playing cherub here ... One pink flamingo for one lawn jockey there ... I still feel kinda guilty about the Disneyfied Snow White we dropped and broke in the middle of the street. Still, as the saying goes, if you're gonna make an omelete you have to break a few Snow Whites.

We never meant mindless vandalism - we had a higher purpose. We wanted people to knock on their neighbors' door and trade their newly acquired concrete cat for their old ornate birdbath. We wanted street-mates to meet each other. We wanted friendships born under odd circumstances.

Okay, we were just loaded and we thought it would be funny.

I'd like to think we did just a little good that night. I really hope one person on that street made a friend the next morning because two drunken fuckwits were bored.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Employment? Is It Right For You?

Finding a job is really hard work.
In fact, it is harder work than actually working. I didn't much like working in the first place. Why would I like looking for it?
Being the town drunkard doesn't pay -- plus there is too much competition in Orillia.
Being a wise-ass pays slightly better but those jobs are few and far between.
Being a doctor pays really well, but I have the bedside manner of a drunken wise-ass.
That said, whisky, guitar strings and lap dances don't pay for themselves. Right now, Barb pays for them. GO BARB!
But eventually I'll ride that Sugar Mama into the ground - so to speak. In that spirit, here are a few job finding tips I wish someone had clued me into before I started my present, half-hearted, ultimately futile search.

Don’t punctuate your interview with Dukes of Hazzard style narration.
example: "Well how 'bout that... looks like Ol' Hipster done stirred up a nest a trouble and got his potential employer all riled up like a big ol' hive of yellowjackets!"
Potential employers find a fake southern accent and a banjo off-putting.

Your resume should not tell potential employers that you “only feel hopeful between (your) fifth and twelfth vodka gimlets”.

While on the subject of resumes, no employer cares about your interests. Really don’t mention your interests if they include the phrases “shenanigans and tom-foolery”, “dancing like a robot” or “reverse cowgirl”.

Also, resumes are no place to list your internal demons. In my case: Alcohol ... Internet Porn ... Pills ... Actual Demons.

‘Three-drink charming’ has only worked once for me in a job interview – and it wasn’t a very good job.

Never, ever shout “NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED” even if your potential employer says, “…and the doctor said.” The temptation will be very strong, but try to fight it. The very thought of it may make you giggle for days afterward but it won't get you the job. Trust me.

If you get the job, never quizzically say “Friend?” in a Frankenstein voice.

If you get the job, despite doing all of the things I told you not to do above?
Keep it.

Friday, July 18, 2008

If I Had a Million Dollars ... I'd Buy Some Blow

I don't think anyone saw this one coming.
Far be it for me to mock anyone for using illegal drugs -- aside from Andy Dick. Drugs are quite fun ... and if you use them people think that you're cool.
This past Wednesday, Steven Page, singer for the Barenaked Ladies took one step closer to becoming the Keith Richards of East York. He was arrested in upstate New York for possession of cocaine and marijuana.
This may hamstring the sales of the his band's latest album, "Snacktime", a collection of two dozen original children's songs.
Perhaps it won't. The Friendly Giant was, allegedly, coked to the gills. Mr. Rogers was more of a beer and Qualudes man. Mister Dress-Up, despite his lucrative CBC contract, loved to huff paint.
I genuinely hope that Page beats this drug charge. He's good at what he does - a certain Mr. George Laramee (though he denies it) and I once enjoyed a show of his at the Danforth Music Hall. He and his band do a lot for charity - various food banks, leukemia, Jack Layton. What he chooses to put up his nose has never affected me - or you I'll wager - in the slightest. Unless you are one of his three children, in which case: I'm sorry for what happened to your daddy and STOP READING THIS WEBSITE! IT ISN"T APPROPRIATE FOR KIDS! DON'T YOUR PARENTS EV ... uh, never mind.

In other news:

Christ just e-mailed and and asked that his name be taken off of the project. Christianity is now to be known as AlanSmitheeism ... Fuck You Nazis for trying to deprive us of all of our best comics ... 90210 was a horrible television show but it encouraged the growth of sideburns ... I miss the Beverly Hillbillies on television, Mostly I miss Ellie May Clampett. Christ, I'd like to have fucked her ... You can talk all you want about your Makarovs and your Lugers but the Colt .45 is still the best sidearm for scaring the fuck outta people ... Jesus, just Google Alan Smithee if you don't get the joke ... Scotch Whisky, Irish Whisky and Canadian Whisky taste pretty much the same unless you shell out for the good stuff ... the Leafs will lose many games this year but I hope they will be an unpleasant team to play against ... Did Freddy Mercury popularize the Big Gay Mustache? Was he wearing a Big Mustache because it was popular amongst the Gays? I'm just wondering ... Sometimes I think George Clinton's P-Funk just exist so white people can feel hip ... I'm gonna go off on Barb all Andy Capp-style if she ever belittles me in front of an optometrist again ... Wow, that Randy Newman really hated midgets. I hope he has smartened up ... Barack Obama and his handlers need to be cool - criticizing satire because dumb people might not understand is no way to gain my non-existent vote ... Quebec seperatists are angry Paul MacCartney is playing Quebec City's 400th anniversary because he represents a "second English Invasion" . A direct quote, that last one... Hmm - American Liberals or Quebec Separatists -- who has the thinnest skin?

Friday, July 11, 2008

Who is Mystery Dave ...

... and can I buy him a drink?

Sources as diverse as India's The Money Times, the UK's NME and Canada's Welland Tribune were reporting that the Ontario Provincial Police pulled over an erratic driver in Oakland, Ontario and, lo and behold, it was Van Halen frontman David Lee Roth with a giant head (insert your own joke here) suffering an allergic reaction to nuts (insert your own joke here).
Nice story, but Roth denies the incident. He has a pretty strong alibi with 20 thousand witnesses. He was busy on stage in New York at the time.
"I had no encounters or incidents with the police," said Diamond Dave, through his publicist. "The only thing I'm allergic to is criticism."
Ontario's finest waited with the man who claimed to be Roth until an ambulance arrived. He was whisked to the nearest hospital for one dose of epinephrine and two nurses, according to the excellently named Graham Rockingham in the Toronto Star.
Cubic Zirconia Dave, having recovered from his near fatal nut poisoning, reputedly hightailed it to the Liquid Lounge in nearby Brantford, escorted by two of Ontario's more dedicated healthcare professionals/groupies. Purely outpatient follow-up, no doubt.
The owner of the bar, Cheri Welsh, was sure it was Roth because he wore alligator shoes and, well, because he said so, according to Rockingham's article,
I can't understand his motives," she told the Star. "It's not like he was getting free drinks or anything. He was putting money on the table."
The fake rock star also jumped up on stage and performed the Van Halen classic Ice Cream Man with a local band.
You have to admit, Mystery Dave has style. He even pays for his own drinks. Bravo Mystery Dave, you are a first class hornswaggler.
The best part, though, is that neither the cops, the intake nurse or the bouncers bothered to ask for some identification. How do you get pulled over by police and not asked for ID? Wouldn't an Ontario heath card throw up a red flag? Some kid with a web browser couldn't have figured out that 'Dave' was actually on stage at Madison Square Garden at the time?

In related news a man 'POSING' as former VH singer Sammy Hagar was found panhandling in front of a Second Cup in Ajax. He was, by all accounts, thrilled with his $12.58 haul.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Nonsense 101: A Comprehensive History of Incompetance

Welcome to the first in my series of lectures on the WORLD'S GREATEST FUCK-UPS.
When I call them the world's greatest fuck-ups, I mean no disrespect -- well, not much disrespect. Most of us are just regular stumble bums. The best of us are given to the occasional social faux pas.
Some of us have too much credit card debt. Some of us couldn't get laid in Reno with an 8-ball and a Gold Card. Some of us (ahem) are inconsequential poseurs with drinking problems.
It takes not only a complete lack of talent, luck or charm to be a world class sad-sack.
It takes intestinal fortitude. It takes perseverance. It takes testicles the size of bowling balls.


William Topaz McGonagall was a hand loom operator in 19th Century Scotland. Had he been born in 20th Century North America, I'm pretty sure his middle name would have doomed him to life as a stripper.
He may have been one hell of a weaver. Sadly, we will never know as none of his fabrics have survived.
He may have been one hell of a dancer. One erotic etching allegedly survived, but remains in the hands of a wealthy collector who wants to "maintain McGonagall's dignity".
What did survive was some of the worst poetry ever committed to print.
Academics rarely agree on much. The general consensus is, however, that McGonagall (Douglas Adams opinions notwithstanding) was 'THE WORST POET IN THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE'.

After finding his voice in 1877, McGonagall fired off his first poem in praise of a local vicar to the Dundee Weekly News. A sample - best read aloud in a thick Scottish burr:

"Rev George Gilfillan of Dundee, I must conclude my muse,
And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse,
Nor does it give me pain to tell the world fearlessly, that when
You are dead they shall not look upon your like again."

The editor smirkingly printed it with sarcastic 'praise' underneath. But, as many a journalist has learned the hard way -- there is no such font as Times New Ironic.

The encouraged McGonagall, tired of weaving tartan, set off on a twenty-five year bender of really crappy verse. Calling himself "Her Majesty's Poet" McGonagall would often write about the news of the day. His shining moment came when the Tay Bridge collapsed, plunging a train carrying 75 passengers to their death. It remains one of the worst railway disasters in British history. McGonagall was moved to write this memorial, if inaccurate, prose:

"Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time."

Six (sort of) stanzas later, full of the bizarre rhyme schemes, disregard for metaphor and the lack of poetic metre that characterized his work, he concludes:

"Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed."

He was also a Temperance advocate -- with good reason. Wife-beating, burglary and general naughtiness aside, a bartender was "the first man to throw peas at" McGonagall while reading his poems to a pub's clientele, according to his self-published autobiography.

McGonagall would have his revenge on the tipplers with immortal lines like:

"Then the Angel cried, "Thank God, Christ's Kingdom's near at hand,
And there will soon be peace and plenty throughout the land,
And the ravages of the demon Drink no more will be seen."
But, alas, I started up in bed, and behold it was a dream!"

In the wake of this poem, thousands of Scots stopped buying strong drink.
Oh, they kept right on drinking. They just stopped buying.

Some claim McGonagall was a pioneer in performance art; writing bad poems to get any reaction from his audience. Most say he was just completely oblivious. But despite a willingness to be pelted with eggs and vegetables for five pence, McGonagall died penniless in 1902.

In 2008, a book of 35 McGonagall poems, signed by the author, sold for $15,000 at an auction house in Edinburgh.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Happy Canada Day

Belated though it may be.

The above T-shirt design is brought to you by the good people who support the Vermont secession movement.

In 2007, a poll by the University of Vermont's Center for Rural Studies found that 13 percent surveyed support secession from the United States of America, up from 8 percent a year before.

Why not? They were the first state in the union to outlaw slavery. They elected a Bernie Sanders, the first openly-socialist American senator, in 2006. They have maple syrup, beautiful foliage and they seemed very polite the last time I visited.

I hope you had a very smug and self-satisfied Canada Day. Though few of us had a choice about being Canadians, let us be thankful for that accident of birth. It could be much, much worse.

We now return to the previously scheduled drinking of beer, picking up after ourselves and complaining that the weather is either too hot or too cold.

Friday, June 27, 2008


to Geordie and Kim on the birth of their son Valen.
He is healthy and described by Geordie as "quite nice".

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Up Against The Wall MotherFuckers

When I become your beloved Philosopher-King -- and I will be, once this hangover wears off -- there are going to be a few changes 'round this place. There are certain people that seriously need to attend "re-education camp". I will not kill them, for I will be a benevolent dictator, loved by all but most especially and explicitly by several ladies at once.
People of normal sanity need not fear my whisky fuelled mood swings but several people have earned my wrath as of late. Most notably:

who wrote a letter, published in the June 2 issue of People magazine:
"I do not understand how Jennifer Aniston can be interested in John 'love 'em and leave 'em' Mayer. He has blown through so many sweet girls. I hope Jen wises up."
Margaret...if you have enough time to commit that banality to print, you have enough time to labour in my undergound Nethicite mines. Umm...I mean, attend an informational week-end retreat where you can be shown the error of your ways.
And that goes for anyone else who writes a letter to People that doesn't include the salutation "Dear Fuckwads" Or anyone wondering why I was reading People magazine.

That fucking MARMADUKE,
who seriously glamourizes disobedience among dogs. Don't we have a hard enough time keeping Great Danes off of our sofas and not chasing the mail-man who is, afterall, only trying to earn an honest living, pay his allimony, keep his mother in a rest home that hasn't been seen on Sixty Minutes and afford a bottle of scotch after a long day of hauling flyers, bills and pleas for money from African orphans and the NDP? With the internet, he has no job security. Do you think he doesn't know that MARMADUKE? Why do you continue to torment him? Off to pull carts full of Nethicite in the mines with you! Shit, I mean, off to a seminar where we sit down, talk about our feelings in a proactive way and devise ways to become more tolerant.

PEOPLE who get cashiers to check their LOTTERY TICKETS for winners while you stand in line BEHIND THEM trying to buy SMOKES,
because my time is less valuable than yours. We all know lottery tickets are a tax on the stupid - unlike cigarettes which are a tax on the self destructive -- but who knew they were too stupid or lazy to read some numbers in a newspaper and then check to see if the were on the piece of paper they bought. They won't be as lazy when they are sentanced to the Nethicite mines, err, I mean sent to a esteem building conference where we learn to appreciate the value of other people's time.

would have made my list - if I had a list - long before this. He and his followers at the Westboro Baptist Church (known as the WBC for brevity's sake) have picketted gay-bashed-to-death Matthew Sheppard's funeral (you may remember them as the charming folk holding tasteful GOD HATES FAGS placards). They picketted dead American soldiers funerals - dead because of America's alleged tolerance of the homos. They celebrated the deaths of Princess Diana (AIDS charities) and the Queen Mum (something to do with worshiping false idols, but I didn't really get it) in press release form. They are douchebags ... Attention loving douchebags.
They hate Ronald Reagan and Jerry Falwell for being too liberal. Seriously.
Usually I'm a 'Live and Let Live' kinda heathen but this time - as a fellow potty mouthed athiest and filthy blasphemer - it's personal.

The WBC’s Press Release declared,
“George Carlin - the filthy blasphemer - the obscene potty-mouth skeptic, agnostic, and profane atheist - who had nothing but disdain for God and the Bible all the days of his tragic life - is now, at this minute and for ever writhing and screaming in exquisite pain - pleading for mercy from that God he flipped off while performing for HBO for lucre. Carlin made lots of money making fun of God; now he must deal with God - face to face - for ever. ‘The Lord thy God repayeth them that hate him to their face, to destroy them; he will not be slack to him that hateth him, he will repay him to his face.’ Deut. 7:10. When Carlin died yesterday (June 22) he split Hell wide open at once”

First, how can you be both an agnostic and an athiest? it would be like describing Fred Phelps as a moderate and fundamental Christian.

Second? Aw, Fuck it. There is no second. I'm not even going to pretend I won't send them to the Nethicite mines where Fred Phelps and his ilk will be constantly anally violated by Nethicite miners and their pet HOWLER MONKEYS who deserve a break every now and then. Sodomize on, MARMADUKE. Sodomize on.