The World Series of BORING!

When did Poker become a SPORT…so much so, that TSN would designate a significant amount of it’s prime time broadcast hours each day in order to host highlights from the ‘World Series of Poker’? WTF?

Since when does a group of fat men in dark sunglasses, all burying their chins into their meaty palms in quiet reflection, while casually clicking chips with the other hand for what seems like eons on end (if anything, just to let us know that they are still alive), qualify as anything even slightly resembling anything of a SPORT? There’s more interesting sporting going on during the ‘Synchronized Tai-Bo’ exercise programs broadcast over on the RICHARD SIMMONS Channel!

Right up to the final showdown between two steely-eyed, gourd-bellied behemoths, locked in a tense Stare-a-thon across the table at one another …calculating card strategies based on complicated odds and percentages in their heads like adding bionic human adding machines…each fixedly frozen in that classic Rodan's "The Thinker" pose...the sporting excitement level must peek somewhere between choking on a piece of lodged Bratwurst, and reading Tolstoy in the bath tub by candlelight...WOO-HA!

People who enjoy these professional Poker Sleepfests are probably the same kind of people who would be similarly entertained watching paint peel from the radiator in their room at the nearest available Psychiatric Ward.

Cinema for the Single

Single people should not be allowed to go to the cinemas by themselves...particularly on Halloween night.

By the time we have purchased our large buttered popcorn and small diet soft drink and nestled into our aisle seat, our internal 'Ethos Meter' is sounding off like a frightened howler monkey. It suddenly feels like everyone around us is staring mockingly at the single freak sitting by himself in Aisle 7.

We immediately begin to feel all apprehensive that we've chosen to show our emmotional availability in public, and that we are somehow unworthy or unable to share our personal lives with another warm body.

Before you know it, our self sympathies are alive and stirring and we're screaming out "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TAKE ME INSTEAD!" seconds before each gruesome murder scene in a desire to finally end it all right there with our bag of salted empty calories rather than return to the torture that is our normal single lives.

That wears thin on the rest of the cinema goers pretty quick; as does the lonely sobbing in the dark each time the couple in front me hold hands, or puts their arms around one another.

The Biggest Loser

Remember the future television game show adverts in Arnold Schwartzenegger’s ‘The Running Man’? There was ‘Climb for Dollars’ and ‘Swim with Crocs’; each a violent prediction for the future public’s appetite for competitive bloodlust. The latest Reality television show, ‘The Biggest Loser’, is about as on par with these grim gaming predictions as Tiger Woods at the ‘Sleepy Acres Putt-Putt Golf Course’.

We can now tune in weekly to watch teams of enormous tub-o-lards sweat and cry their way through shedding enough weight in order to be eligible to win a “new body, a new life, and $25,000 in prize money”. We the viewers, can sympathize and get all weepy-eyed over their tearful admissions of lacking self-control and willpower as their fat asses are put through a Diet Boot Camp before a national audience by an over-zealous training coach that would make most military Drill Sergeants cower with fear; and we can chew our grilled cheese sandwiches on the couch as they bitch their way through a forced diet of lettuce and sprouts that would make even the most finicky of rabbits consider becoming carnivorous.

I am extremely nerved at this moment that Steven King’s eerie prophetic visions have come to be. Christ, next I’m going to be running the risk of being run over by a riding lawn mower being driven by the lady who lives next door.

The Biggest Loser? Let me tell you who the biggest loser will really be: YOU AND ME; the average viewing audience member at large! It’s our collective IQ’s that will plummet like the Trade Towers if we continue to allow this kind of Reality television to continually pollute our minds during the weekday hours of 8:00PM and 10:00PM.

Bill & Ted's Exellent Passion

I was finally able to see ‘The Passion of the Christ’.

Wow! Those four hours driving around the city to every obscure neighborhood corner ‘Mom and Pop’ video shop trying to secure an obsolete VHS copy to rent were totally worth it. Thorns, and subtitles, and whoopin’s, OH MY!

One disturbing thing though kept distracting me from totally enjoying Mad Mel’s graphic foray into ‘Tell-It-Like-It-Is’ Christianity, and that was that lurking, black-cloaked Devil guy always observing from the sidelines. Didn’t he just resemble Death from ‘Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure’ a little too closely? I kept waiting for Keanu Reeves to jump out of the crowd in a kippot and try to squeeze him into a telephone booth.

“Forgive them, Father. For they totally don’t know what they do.”

Either that, or it was a cameo appearance by the pale creepy guy from ‘Powder’. Didn’t that white guy have special super powers too? Wasn’t he mocked and tormented by his peers up until his ultimate demise as well? Holy shit! Wait…why does he look so amused at poor Jesus’ situation in this movie then?

Somebody better alert the Vatican think tank, I think that I’ve just stumbled onto an important theological footnote here!

Won't Somebody PLEASE Think of the Starving Pussy!

You know who’s the real victim of my sudden work shift shakeup? My cat...the poor little bastard! Sure, my own daily eating and sleeping routine is all askew-whiff as well but at least I can more easily adapt. Poor Miso is staring into the gaping maw of Hell’s cauldron not being so easily break up the routines to which he has been regularly accustomed.

With my change in hours at work from day back to nights, his meal times have been altered to suit my own new eating schedule. What can I say? I like to eat together with daddy’s wittle-furry-wurry…ah fuck, nevermind; you get the picture. As a result, his stomach hasn’t got a fucking clue whether it’s coming or going. Every single fucking time I walk into the kitchen it’s like the eagle has suddenly landed! I am met with meows and purrs of anticipation as if this is the first meal he’s had in weeks. You can see it in his eyes:

“This could be it, Alfa-tummy! Over.
This is what we’ve been waiting for! Over.
All systems commence purring…”

Try explaining to his furry ass that he had something to eat only two hours ago when I got up and that now his next meal is going to be another 8 hours yet. All his internal belly alarm clock knows is that it’s 4:30PM…”so make with the kibble, motherfucker!”

Shameless Admission

I love my cat.

I know, I know, what next…Ylang Ylang treated shower poof? I know it’s not particularly manly to admit such a thing, but at the moment it’s undeniably true. I love my wittle-furry-wurry-sugar-schnookums. Deal with it, or go choke yourself.

Of course there is a part of me that is just more than a wee bit concerned that by the age of 32, the most meaningful relationship I’ve been able to establish in my life beyond my own family parameters, is a 4 year old neutered male cat named after a Japanese soup. Not exactly something you’d like to brag about with your buddies down at the neighborhood boozer on the weekends. As my profile suggests, had I been able to predict the future a decade ago I would easily have had more puncture wounds in my forehead then I do now.

But what can I say? I love the furry fucker.

For me it’s impossible to be at home and not automatically hear that soft familiar pitter-patter of feline paws behind me as I go from room to room. You just can’t live in close proximity with that kind of constant companionship without eventually getting accustomed to it, and even needing it. Shit, it’s like working under a surveillance camera knowing every move you make and every action you perform is being watched, scrutinized, and evaluated. I can’t even take a piss now when I’m not at home unless I close my eyes and picture my cat behind me. Explain THAT to the guys down at the ‘Grope n’ Tickle’!

Don’t worry though. This open shameful admission was only a fleeting one and I’m not about to start listening to Annie Lennox albums or join Oprah’s Book Club or anything ridiculous like that. I’m the same course, manly guy who grunts, groans, and lights his farts (although I might not be picturing in my minds eye at that exact moment what you might have otherwise normally been picturing) like every other member of the respectable Swinging Dick Brigade.

I am now going back to my light beer and ‘Smokey & the Bandit’ movie marathon. There is nothing more to read here….

Underwear Adverts in Brief

I received a Bay catalogue in the mail today. And although I wouldn’t dare get caught shopping in a Bay department store anymore than I would allow myself to get cause at a back alley dogfight, I was still tempted to leaf through the pages of product adverts to see exactly what all the fashionably mindless will be wearing this winter season.

The Bay is currently advertising men’s underpants for only $32.95. WTF? Who spends that much money on underpants? I’d sooner stick my legs through the bottom of an empty MacDonald’s bag and wear it like a diaper before I spend the equivalent of four hours at work on something that will inevitably end up skid-marked in less than a month.

And what’s with the advertisement models? Here are two flawless young males frolicking in their underwear with each other like two eunuchs over a Licorice Whip; both with their perfectly wrinkle-free undershirts tucked into the waistbands of their $32.95 underpants! How the fuck is that selling men’s underwear? Do they think that any right-minded man on this planet is suddenly going to buy a pair of these babies just because they saw them in a catalogue being modeled by two guys that were inevitably the same kind of kids who wore their underpants in the shower after gym class lest prying eyes should ever scope out their stubbley, pre-pubescent gonads?

Living the Fast Life at 35 km/h

My mother has been in two car accidents during the course of this last year. She is so spooked at the wheel now that driving with her now is an arduous endeavor. While driving tonight, I am certain that we were lapped by Farther Time riding in a rickshaw.

For my mother, considering her bad luck on the road this year, driving is like breaking concrete blocks with her forehead; it takes about as much mental focus and concentration as it would take to levitate her car and fly it the entire way.

She takes only the faintest back roads and avoids all other avenues of regular traffic wherever possible. At times, it seemed that the road just disappeared altogether and we were left asking for directions from old men on rickety bicycles who spoke with thick unfamiliar accents and smelling of cabbage.

She also has to maintain a calm serenity about the vehicle's interior as she concentrating on the task at hand. She plays only piano solitudes (or anything else that would best contribute itself to a “think tank” type environment demanding your complete, focused attention) on the radio to keep her calm and alert. If it was not for the constant sudden breaking and veering every time another vehicle comes into view on the horizon, driving with my mother would induce even the most wiring coke fiend into a coma within minutes.

By the time we had arrived at our destination, almost a whole decade had passed and the clothes that I carefully chosen to wear where terribly out of fashion. People were staring as if I had just been wearing a fur skin and weilding a large animal bone over my shoulder.

Jail House Crock

Domestic trendsetter Martha Stewart checked into a Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia today to begin serving her five-month prison sentence for stock fraud.

Now, recognized only as prisoner No. 55170-054, the happy homemaker was presented with her new prison uniform of brown khakis pants, black shirt, and steel toe boots. WTF? Steel toe boots? What does a guilty prison inmate, regardless of prior non-violent tendencies, ever need steel toe boots for? Particularly at a place that they affectionately call “Camp Cupcake”? Are these for the inevitable cellblock beat-downs that fresh fish Martha is planning on delivering to the other inmates in her bid to assert herself as the prisons dominant Alpha Bitch? I can't bring my crocheting hooks on any domestic flight, but prison inmates are required to wear steel toe boots? Sheesh!

Martha will be spending her time with another woman and will not be allowed to conduct any business. Let me get this straight: she makes her fame and fortune baking pies, organizing cupboards, trimming rosebushes, and making ornamental swans out of old newspapers, and then she’s NOT allowed to conduct business while incarcerated? Oh yeah, that’s some punishment!

That must have been some sentencing: “…and further more Martha, you will not be permitted to make, bake, craft, clean, or organize ANYTHING in your cell for the duration of your sentence.”

It'll be like serving your sentance at Euro-Disney.

So for a whole five months she’ll just be sitting there on her bunk in her cell, staring off into space, and stroking a mouse. “There, there, Mr. Jenkins. All you need to add to that bland cafeteria shingle is just a dash of rosemary and cinnamon and you’ll create that perfect flavor to spice up any prison meal.”

Bake Sale Kumate

(For the "Cheesecake Lady"; because I know she'll be peeking.)

One of the ladies that I work with brought in a cheesecake today and I was offered to share in a slice at break time. Isn’t that nice? Mental Note To Self: “Always suck up to anyone who can bake well.”

There are a few kind ladies now who all seem to subconsciously vie to “tempt my tummy with the taste of nuts and honey”, so to speak. I feel like the ‘Honey-Nut Cheerios’ bee sometimes as I move slowly down their aisle buffet of baked goods and wrapped candies. I imagine the ladies competing to lure my focused attention to their desktop bowls of sweets or their Tupperware containers of home-baked goodies.

Sometimes, I like to encourage them to compete a little more aggressively for my sweet tooth by subtly egging them on.

“Oh Eleanor, are those delicious Hershey Kisses? May I have one? Oh, wait! Joan, is that CHEESECAKE? Sorry, fuck off Eleanor. Get back to me when you upgrade from those sorry-ass Kisses.”

Or just simply start off my day with: "Okay girls, who has the most fattening, high-calorie, cavity trap for me today?"

The Shit Must Go On

I think the most over-rated band in the entire history of music is Queen. As far as I’m concerned, Queen is the crown jewel mushroom sitting on the very top of a very large steaming pile of Rock n Roll shit

Who the fuck knows what Freddie Mercury was waffling on about when he sang: “All we hear is radio ga ga. Radio goo goo.” All I can assure you is that all I really need by this point in the album is a sledgehammer between the eyes!

Nothing makes my balls retract back up into my body quicker than playing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. I’d rather listen to recordings of surgery noises from Operating Rooms than suffer through any three seconds of any Queen album.

“Hey, can you turn up that ‘surgical bone saw’ track a little louder please; I can still hear the ‘Fat Bottom Girls’ playing off in the distance.”

Question.

You know what’s annoying as hell? People who begin their question to you by first stating “Question.” as in: “Question. Do you like Peanut Butter Sandwiches?”

Umm, you don’t have to point out the obvious for me before delivering me your stupid ass question, dumbass. Not unless you want me to begin your answer with the equally condescending “Answer” as in: “Answer. What’s it to you, ya nosey prick?”

I am perfectly able to immediately determine when I’m being questioned or just being ordinarily spoken to, thank you very much. What am I, some remedial moron with no concept of proper English linguistics? Fuck you.

Anyone who speaks to me like this I just want to dropkick square in the head.

Three's Her Charm!

Why is it that you have to offer things three times to women before they will graciously accept something? We're offering it, you want some, so take it. PLEASE!

Is there some all-encompassing gender rule that dictates that a properly refined woman of any quality or culture cannot accept anything offered to her unless it has been offered three times? “Hey sweetheart, would you like a sticky bun? No? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sticky bun? Really, it’s okay to have one if you like…” and then BAM! She’s on that glazed motherfucker like Oprah on a baked ham!

I'm not some drawbridge troll darling, and I have no desire to riddle you pointlessly with three questions. So quit making with this billy-goat gruff bullshit and take whatever it is I'm offering you if you really do want it the first time.

Is this some bizarre social etiquette that I've been oblivious to during my whole meager 32 years of existance on this planet? I wonder what would happen if they were ever to over-zealously accept even a single cupcake on the very first inquiry? Their ovaries would probably spontaneously combust or something.

We men have no such qualms about such foolish etiquette; we take whatever is offered to us the first time it’s presented since we can’t count on any guarantee’s that there will be any left by the second offering. “Fuck it, I don’t care what it is…I want some!” Somebody could be offering us grilled beaver shit on a stick and we’d still take one just because it was offered…any hey, you never know!

Wheelchair Ripoff

At this past Sunday’s Buffalo Bills football game, somebody stole the wheelchair belonging to a thirteen year old boy. What an incredibly astute execution of the perfect crime! What was the poor boy going to do? Give pursuit?

You stole a handicapped kids chair. Man, the perpetrators of this theft must be absolutely beside themselves with triumph. You just stole the only means of transport for one of Jerry’s Kids; time for a Goldschlager!

I’m not sure if I can actually picture the crime in my minds eye though. Was the kid out of his chair at the time of the theft or was he absent from the chair? Did he have to be skillfully distracted from the chair with a “HEY, LOOK! IS THAT O.J. SIMPSON OVER THERE?” before making the move? Or if not, how come the kid was in a regular able-bodied seat and not occupying the one being used by his vacant chair? Is he occupying TWO seats? Surely this can't be the case; otherwise I'd throw the little seat-mooching handicapped bastard to the wolves myself and sell his wheelchair for scrap metal!

Can you imagine the pre-theft planning huddle before perpetrating the crime?

“Okay, Larry. You Ready? It’s time to go for the motherload, buddy! Now you run a cross pattern play from the hot dog vender to where you meet the mark, mid-aisle as he makes his move to the shitter at half time, and I’ll circle around behind and run a counter defensive maneuver to distract your escape. Ready? BREAK!”

Mmore than likely, the chair was not intentionally stolen so much as it was borrowed in order to wheel the incoherent Billy Fucknuts around the parking lot trying to find his lost car after he made too many beer funnels in the pre-game sauceup.

The Corporate Cubicle Crab

One of the girls on another team at work moved desks this morning. What I’m wondering: is how in the fuck did she ever manage to make such a move at all?

She must have rented an entire U-Haul in order to move all her family photo albums, cat pictures, Tupperware tubs of snacks and candies, spill-proof bottles and coffee mugs, afghans shawls, ‘Cosmo’ magazines, pencil cases, work manuals and binders, decorative calendars, forests of ‘Post-It’ notes, cutesy plush toy mascots and toys, address books, scratch pads, foot rests, cosmetic make-up bags, wrist foamies, and whatever the fuck else it is that she had stored up at that cramped corner cubicle for the past 4 months!

Shit, my grandmother probably had an easier time moving from her home of 83 years into her new Retirement Village.

She probably gave herself a hernia trying to lug all this accumulated crap from one desk to another. It must have looked like a giant hermit crab scuttling down the aisle with an enormous shell mounted up with its complete acquired possessions.

Somebody call David Suzuki! I’d like to introduce the world to this new unique breed of planetary species: The Corporate Cubicle Crab.

Motel 'Sick'

(Written @ La Quinta Hotel; Austin, Texas. Saturday, September 18th; 11:23AM)

There is a certain amount of uniform grossness that is expected to accompany any hotel room anywhere in the world. Most things that you commonly find in any normal hotel room are the same things that you would also find in any science lab petri dish.

It is my belief that hotel rooms are exact carbon copies of each other across the planet. You could rent a room in ‘Yuk Ho Fuk’s Quality Inn’ in Bangklok, Thailand and it would be extremely similar to a room you would rent at ‘Madame Possomtit no-Tell motel’ in Buttfuck, Indiana.

The bed sheets would be made out of the same thinly pressed, hideously-designed synthetic manufactured variety, that have been recently sterilized and remade up into the same bed after the Triple-X Throwdown that inevitably took place in the room the night before. No doubt the same mattress has been used to absorb the bodily fluids and discharges that were spilled. These bed sheets are not designed so much for comfort or warmth as they are intended to act as cum sponges.

To wave a black light over these hotel sheets and see the random multiple old stains and smears prevalent on them would be like viewing an authentic Jackson Pollock painting at a museum.
Similar as well is that pulsating massage showerhead setting in the shower that peppers your balls with those short controlled vicious bursts of water spray, so that it seems like a prize fighter is using your nutsack as a punching bag.

"Eh, you want some of this?"

It is harvest season and I have just finished reaping my patio bounty. By the time I was able to preen away all the excess leaves and stalks to chisel out this miraculous yeild of super potent "buddage" from 'Crazytigerrabitman's Magic Patio Garden'.

The size of some of these magnificent beauties are the size of a babie's leg. By the time I was done sculpting the stems and stocks, removing leaves and branches with surgical prescion like a Japanese gardening master meditating over his bonzai tree, there was a pile of green, sticky baby's legs laying in the middle of my living room floor (cool imagery if you're a pot-smoking hippie type ~ or Jeffery Dahmer maybe).

The crop has now been carefully laid out on my closet shelves like precious family heirlooms.

So, now that I have a mountain of weed in my apartment, I wonder how long it will be before I'm dressing in white suits, weilding chainsaws, and introducing people to "my lee'tle fren'"? My cat will be holding secret business meetings in cafes with desperate looking Italian men in fedora's and Pasta Pazouli on their breath, and offering to do them favors.

We'll be 'Nice Guys'. Well, more like 'Nice and High Guys'.