Cat Got Your Bong?

I was fortunate enough to be released from the shackles of my employment today in order to return home.

Judging from his less-than-enthusiastic reaction when I get home each day, it has been my belief that my cat, Miso, throws huge raging keg parties in my apartment each afternoon before I return home. He has just barely enough energy to greet me at the door, take three bites of the kibble I place in his bowl, before retiring back into the linen closet to catch a catnap and nurse his ensuing hangover from his day of partying it up.

Now that I am returning home nearly 4 hours early, I am expecting to barge into my apartment and find him sitting in a circle in the middle of the living room floor with his kitty buddies mainlining Pounce Treats, or accidentally walk in on him in the bathroom spanking one out to the latest edition ‘Cat Fancy Monthly’.

“HEY, SOMEBODY IS STILL IN HERE! Don’t you ever knock?”

Wrestle-No-Brainia

Tickets to the new WWE “Wrestlemania XXI” event to be held at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California sold completely out in less than a minute!

Fuck me! Is that even possible? Did they sell them telepathically or something?

How fast can a single financial transaction be performed repetitively so that an entire sporting event of 15,000 screaming, clamoring, sign-waving, sweaty redneck fucktards can sell out in the bat on an eyelash? How many avid wrestling fans actually own credit cards anyways? I was certain that they normally they wouldn’t have had the good two cents needed in order to be able to make that kind of shrewd stealthy transaction.

This rapid acceleration of the world’s pace never ceases to amaze me. I wonder what ‘Andre the Giant’ would think about this incredible rate of business 21 years ago in 1985 at the first ever ‘Wrestlemania’ at Madison Square Garden? You could have sold out a venue with the same spatial capacity as that of the entire State of Oklahoma by the time it took poor Andre to change into his wrestling tights.

Doing the 'Hurricane Shuffle'

What’s a balmy weekend day without the traditional Hurricane Reports on CNN? It has simply become as much a part of enjoying my usual summer's day as the nasty rash that has lingered all season on my thighs and nutsack; only less enjoyable.

The Florida mainland has suffered through its fourth major hurricane in 6 weeks (the most that has besieged the Florida coasts in over 100 years); Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne, and now Lisa on the way. Fuck, that sounds like the chorus line down at the ‘ol Local Oddfellows Club. It’s sure not the Four Tops, I can tell you that much! Even the Wicked Witch of the East would have been flying her broomstick directly to the nearest storm shelter by now to be sure.

Florida homeowners have claimed over 35 billion in home insurance polices alone, and in Haiti over 300,000 are left homeless (although, only $21.67 has so far been claimed in home insurance policies) with bodies piling up in the streets as the desperate and destitute riot in the streets with Peace Keeping security teams for food and drinking water. The Disaster Reports always look like a clipped scene from the ‘Evil Dead’ movie series salvaged from the editing room floor.

Who needs fucking Reality television when you have this kind of madness taking place in the world? How long before we’re skipping highly anticipated Survivor episodes in favor of watching “Volcano Report”, “Celebrity Earthquake”, or “The Tornado Life” instead?

So long, Farewell...

A lady on my team at work is leaving for a new employment opportunity today so we are all expected to sign a weepy sentimental Hallmark Card to send her off with.

I hate signing these motherfuckin’ hollow tokens of gratitude as they inevitably make me feel like I am on the receiving end of a sharp kick to the scrotum when I try and come up with something delightfully witty and poignant to sign on the inside. Chances are that they are moving on to a more enjoyable, easier, and probably higher paying job and yet I’m still supposed to be remorseful that they are leaving? “Fuck off! And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

They should be leaving me a sympathy card since they’re the ones leaving me behind to continue slaving away in this corporate wasteland while they move on to better things in life!

Do they really think that I’m going to miss them after they’re gone? HA! With any luck, her cantankerous, self-centered, BO-ridden ass will be replaced by a fresh, gullible, blonde Swedish exchange student with Double-D knockers and a fetish for overweight, going nowhere slackers like myself.

Eye of the Cat

Former pop singer, Cat Stevens, a converted Muslim, was deported to Britain this week by officials of the American Homeland Security because his activities “could be linked to terrorism”. Stevens had a string of sappy peacenik hits before shelving his singing and songwriting career in the 70’s and changing his name to Yusuf Islam. Of course, these hasty actions are being criticized by Muslim groups as another farcical example of the ultimately Draconian standards and practices employed by US Immigration authorities.

Apparently, Stevens has turned up on a US list of suspected terrorists and that his activities could be potentially linked to the spread of terrorism. Furthermore, US Intelligence has claimed that Stevens has donated money to support the militant Islamic group Hammas; a claim that he continues to vehemently deny.

Wait, isn’t this the same guy who sang ‘Peace Train’ for fuck sakes? How ridiculous is that? I think I would be more inclined to worry about your average, middle-aged, Anglo-Saxon Slayer fan who likes to dabble in homemade explosives in his basement in his spare time than worry about whether an old hippie-type should be allowed back on American soil once again.

I hardly think that Stevens albums ‘Tea for the Tillerman’ and ‘Teaser and the Firecat’ were intended as rebellious prophetic foreshadows of a rising New World Order.

I’m sure all the evil Hammas terrorist group members all huddle together and sing ‘Morning Has Broken’ in order to psyche themselves up before hijacking airplanes and flying them into buildings or strapping vests of C4 explosives to themselves and storming public marketplaces. It’d be like the Anarchists version of the old classic Survivor “pump up” tune ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

“Morning has broken, like the first tower
Ahmed Yassine has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing flesh from the sword.”

Am I missing something here?

Joseph and His Techni-Color Stream Coat

There is nothing grosser and more disgusting a habit than that of certain men who do not feel that it is their courteous duty as a civilized member of the human race to flush the urinal in the bathroom after they have taken their leak. Hey, the old conservationists adage “if it’s yello, let it mello; if it’s brown, flush it down” DOES NOT apply in public washrooms, Buster!

How disturbing is it to sidle up to the bathroom wall and catch a whiff of steaming ripe man piss left steeping in the porcelain bowl before you. That’s really sick! What are you, some kind of mannerless animal or something? Did you think I was really eager to know what particular hue of yellow your urinary discharges are? That’s some seriously foul sensory overload that I don’t really need in my normal bathroom routine thanks.

Isn’t it common polite bathroom etiquette (along with the “courtesy flush”) not to fill the urinal up to the brim with manky smelling pee and leave it for the poor bastard using the urinal behind you so that they are immediately greeted by a noxious yellow cocktail with the inevitable token wad of gum spat out and laying in the bottom like a cocktail olive. “Mmmmm, and me without any cocktail sticks!”

Men guilty of this disgusting bathroom practice are the same ones who think nothing of pissing in the bathroom sinks between innings at the ballgame and at concert set breaks when the lineup gets a little long. They should be forced to retrieve the wad of gum at the bottom without the use of their hands like they were bobbing for apples at a Halloween Barn Dance.

Internet Confessions

Computer message boards are amazing things. What other available medium would give somebody the protected personal anonymity to publicly announce that you like to have your face spanked with five cocks while having a glass dildo in the likeness of Ricardo Montalban inserted up your ass?

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have the outgoing personal confidence or the audacity to rent the latest edition of “Jerry Springer: Uncensored” from the local video shop, but once logged in online with a whole host of virtual strangers you have no problem openly admitting that you fantasize about having someone whap out the drum solo to Phil Collins ‘In the Air Tonight’ on your face and breasts with their erect penis. WTF?

Where does this sudden “open book” sexuality come from? I spend all day on a computer whether it be at work or at home in my spare time and yet I never feel the need or inclination to make known my deepest, kinkiest fantasies or anything else that I would not ordinarily discuss comfortably about myself around the water cooler or while standing in line at Quizno’s.

Keep it to yourselves. I don’t need to know those kinds of details anymore than you need to know that I like wacking off with fistfuls of mayonnaise to Estelle Getty exercise videos.

Hurricane Rasta

While watching the damage reports from the Gulf of Mexico island nations in the wake of Hurricane Ivan in an airport bar, I learned that while Hurricane Ivan might have been a mighty tropical storm indeed, there is nothing quite so vicious as the generated wind and fury of a large irrate Rasta woman in Rocky Pointe, Jamaica as she awaits on the tardy World Relief services to bring her water, food, and basic first aid to the hole in the ground where her tin shack used to stand *.

And no doubt she is so pissed off. I would be too if I were that destitute and the three rocks that I could consider as personal possessions have been snuffed out in a passing Level 5 Hurricane.

I sure would hate to be the first World Relief volunteer leading the convoy into Rocky Pointe to greet this anxiously awaiting Jamaican woman. He's liable to be on the recieving end of a machete blow from this grateful woman for his efforts. "Where you been, mon? We be here a-starvin', n' goin' t'irsty wit no water or rum or nut'teen, mon! While we be here suffer'een, you been out liv'een the life, mon! Praise Jah!"

I'd rather deliver a convoy of drugs to a Sudanese Mosque and risk being stoned to death by Muslim Fundamentalists than deal with this rather aggrivated Jamaican woman.

* And which, no doubt, is still circling above the Gulf of Mexico in the 140 mph winds like a kite in a wind tunnel.

Black Forest Pot Cake

In Lueneburg, Germany, ten schoolteachers were immediately hospitalized after eating a chocolate cake laced with marijuana (02/12/04). The incident was believed to have been a student prank as the cake was reported to have been left in the school’s teacher’s lounge with a note saying: “Thank you for everything – enjoy your meal”. Suspicions were not instantly aroused because the school has a tradition of cake baking by students and their parents for the 65 member teaching staff.

What the fuck? That’s a pretty fucking awesome “tradition” they got going on over there in German schools. Over here in our less-than-enlightened Western world, we call it “Bribery”...but who's quibbling? Man, where do I apply with the German school board? At the very least, how do I find a job where people make and leave me suprise chocolate pot cakes?

The schools headmaster quoted the incident as “relatively dramatic” as teachers complained of dizziness and loss of sensory perception, and one teacher even phoned in from the railway station saying he needed help.

“Relatively Dramatic?” Geez, what a bunch of pantywaists! Most of us regular schleps would kill for a surprise buzz of this magnitude at work to make our humdrum days a little more interesting like something from the Beatles ‘Yellow Submarine’ with floating marshmallow pies and custard dripping from dead dogs eyes and other surreal shit.

What were they so worried about? It was just a chocolate marijuana cake, for Pete’s sake. “Herr Doctor! I’m beginning to feel all mellow and groovy. What’s wrong with me?” Are they concerned that they may start enjoying the Grateful Dead, or develop an unholy fascination with the Teletubbies?

All the teachers were later released from the hospital later that day and were advised to go home, light some candles and Nag Champa incense, make up a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and put some ‘Country Joe & the Fish’ on the stereo immediately. And oh yeah, never to eat strange cakes left with anonymous notes in the teachers lounge again.

Wristband Faux Pas

I am noticing an odd fashion phenomenon evolving around me. I have already accepted that sun visors have made a triumphant and poignant return to the world of fashion, but WRISTBANDS?!

Suddenly everyone is walking around looking like either Jimmy Conners or ‘Iron’ Mike Sharpe. What the fuck? How did this ever reemerge as an acceptable fashion? Why would anyone ever want to wear fluffy sporting wristbands out in public anyways unless they were also sporting a tennis racket?

Has this trend developed so far as to be making political and personal statements based on the color or fashion in which the wristband is worn? Would people automatically assume I was gay if I wear to accidentally wear my wristband on the wrong wrist or something? The possible fashion conscious questions and consequences are limitless. “Oh my God! Did you see the black striped sports wristband that Terry was wearing today? Who knew that he was a raging left-wing homosexual White Supremist?”

I can’t wait until fashion goes full circle enough that the Neolithic Age will become trendy once more and we’re all wearing animal skins again on an equal fashionable playing field.

PhD in Crushology

It seems to me that I am developing new romantic crushes every 30 nano-seconds these days. They are beginning to pop up like zits on a Grade 9 High School remedial student. In my mind, I am already betrothed to at least a dozen different oblivious girls.

I’m not sure whether it has been the nice Spring and Summer seasons getting to me or whether it’s just part of the natural vicious cycle of being a pathetic single male. All that I am sure about is the instant reaction in my pecker each time a hint of glorious flesh is revealed in an exposed midriff, low-cut blouse, or from underneath a fashionable mini-skirt.

I feel helpless against these spontaneously generated emotions to the point where I feel I would develop romantic feelings for a Shetland Pony had it paraded past me wearing a revealing halter top and properly accessorized pair of heeled shoes.

Try breaking that news to the family: “Mom…dad. This is Sea Biscuit. We met at the track and we’re in love. We’re going to get married and raise ponies.”

Game-Set-Drool

I have developed a new obsession with Women’s Tennis.

It’s no wonder this has become the Number One preferred male spectator sport as there is nothing quite like ogling 17 year old girls in micro-mini skirts leaping around after balls and grunting like routing piglets to raise a single man’s blood pressure.

In any other capacity, particularly at the public park, we’d be shunned by our communities as a pervert and probably have a court case pending unless we have secretly concealed ourselves in nearby bushes. But in professional Women’s Tennis, it’s all fair play! Ogle and drool until your horny heart is content and you have passed out from the sudden rush of blood from your brain to your penis just because you were lucky enough to see Maria Sharapova deep throat a banana between sets at Wimbleton.

Sporting Women's Fashion

In an interesting turn of events, the University of South Florida will ask the NCAA to grant an exemption to its uniform policy and allow a Muslim player to wear Islamic clothing on the basketball court.

Andrea Armstrong, a Muslim convert, said she left the team and lost her athletic scholarship last week after her coach told her she could not wear religiously mandated clothing during practices or games. She wanted to wear long pants, a top with long sleeves and a headscarf.

Good for the coach! Since watching the women’s Beach Volleyball match-ups during the Olympic competitions, I am now of the mind that ALL female athletes should be mandated to wear micro-mini bikini uniforms, regardless what athletic sport they are participating in.

Imagine the new life that would be breathed into the intense winter Biathlon events as a direct result of the new minimal uniform requirements. The “Nipplage Quota” alone on the female participants would guarantee Prime-Time Network coverage and increase the number of fan appreciators and spectators alike!

It's a complete win-win situation. Viva Las Sport Bras!

Faye Ray Lay

Hollywood film icon Faye Ray, otherwise known as King Kong's love interest, has passed away peacefully of old age.

I am skeptical that nautral causes were in fact the real reason for her untimely demise. I suspect that it may have been caused by lingering complications derived at having attempted intercourse with a three story tall monkey.

Now matter how many years you've spent conditioning yourself with tantrix sex practises or how many levels of yoga you've mastered, your vagina is still bound to experience some sort of severe wear and tear after you've been violated by a gargantuan monkey dick the size of a double-decker bus! Nevermind walking with a limp the next morning, she probably wasn't able to even stagger out from her apartment for years after this traumatic romp. Her uterus probably could have served as the clubhouse for the entire New York Mets baseball team.

Imagine the sloppy seconds after mighty Kong had finished having his way with her. It would have been like taking a dip in a pool of manky cottage cheese.

Yes, it's true. I am bound to go straight to hell after writing this.

Corporate Classroom

We were issued today with a “Code of Business Conduct” to review. As it turns out, everything I needed to know about the Corporate World I learned back in Kindergarten.

This must be some all important Code of Ethics since not only do I have to sign it once I have had the chance to read and reviewed it, but I also have to sigh that I have been issued it to read and sign, and then sign again that I have in fact signed for it and read and signed it when finished. What the fuck? Isn’t that a lot of signing for something that has no real bearing on my actual work performance or the nature of my employ? After reading and signing for this fucking thing so many times, I am now able to do a thousand wrist curls with my writing hand alone, and I STILL have no real fucking idea what my “Conflicts of Interest” are exactly!

The rest of this corporate malarkey reads like the standard list of Rules and Regulations for any kindergarten classroom of teary-eyed, booger-munching Rug Rats (or, “Guiding Principles” as detailed in the mandate). I’m surprised it didn’t come with a large “Golden Rule” banner printed across the front page.

Such professional tidbits of corporate wisdom enclosed in this “Code of Business Conduct” mandate that any other regular schmuck, such as myself, should have learned at an early age and still currently abides by already include: Play Nice With Others (or, “Fair Dealing”), Play Nice With Other Peoples Stuff (or, “Protection and Proper Use of Company Assets”), Always Do as You’re Told (or, “Compliance With Laws, Rules, and Regulations”)...and lastly, If You Ever See Anybody Else Breaking Any of the Above, Rat Them Out to an Adult (or, “Reporting of any Illegal or Unethical Behavior”). Very good indeed!

I am extremely glad to know that Mrs. Halaiko wasn’t wasting my time and needlessly leading me down the Primrose Path by teaching me rules of polite conduct that wouldn’t apply in my later adult life. Because, I sure would be pissed off had I now found out that she was just wasting my time back then teaching me how to be a responsible, forthright member of society instead of just letting me eat paste and burying my Star Wars figurines in the sandbox.

Frances Freakout

The remnants of Hurricane Frances finally reached us here in Canada in the middle of the night last night, and I awoke this morning to drizzly rain and my marijuana plant out on the porch bent over in it’s pot like one of those token windswept palm trees you see in those on-location weather reports. So here I am at 7:30am, out in the rain in my underwear lashing down my beloved plant like a desperate sailor battening down the hatches of his doomed vessel. That’s about as close as I EVER want to get to a natural disaster!

If anything had happened to that plant I would have been instantly transformed into one of those disaster stricken Hurricane victims being interviewed outside their devastated homes, although inevitably I wouldn’t be taking it nearly as gracefully. In fact, I would be taking in any way other than in stride. No sir, there would be no positive glass-is-half-full attitudes from me!

“I just thank God that none of us were seriously hurt and that we’re all alive. So now we can begin the process of rebuilding our lives and getting back on track”.

Horseshit! I’d be on my hands and knees over my broken plant balling and screaming like a journeying pilgrim, at long last returning to the sacred Jerusalem Wailing Wall.

“Why, Oh Lord? Why have you forsaken me? From now on, I have NO God!”

The people whose rooftops are currently in the next county and whose cars are lodged in treetops, would be gently consoling me and attempting to bring me back from the brink of hysteria.

“All my precious weed…GONE! My life is over!”

I’d be a field journalist’s wet dream come true. I’d rival any distraught mother mourning the loss of her last son to the horrors of war any day! CNN would be preempting programs just to run the footage of my pathetic victimized ass.

The Cure

Last night, worlds collided in my apartment as musician Robert Smith, and his band the Cure, guested and performed on 'Jimmy Kimmell Live' on television.

There he was, the popular icon of gloominess from my misspent adolescence, still decked out in black eye-liner and ruby lipstick like a mutant cross of a Vitamin-C deficient scarecrow and a tackily painted, retired widow of the kind you'd find at the local Bingo Hall. Here once again, was fat Bob, old and bloated, waffling on about the end, unrequited love, and something about the eyes of needles abd taking me on a complete trip down Memory Lane to relive all my pent-up teen doom and gloom feelings of personal androgyny and feed old glass-is-half-full attitudes of being borderline manic depressive. Thanks, Bob!

Just to complete the whole evenings voyage back in time, I retired into my bedroom, turned off all the lights and played 'Love Cats' over and over on my ghetto blaster.

I think I may have brought on another bout of deep depression and sense of rejection. Where's my black eye-liner?

Hurricane Migraine

I spent the large portion of this Labor Day weekend holiday sitting on the couch like a caged gorilla. However, I was not watching old Spaghetti Western's as normal, but instead transfixed on the numerous developement updates of the current Hurricane Frances condition currently being waged on the Florida coast and mainland in the wake of Hurricane Charlie.

Did anbody else get a headache after being forced to watch all those dizzying, spinning 3-D computer generated atmospheric weather charts of Hurrican Frances' progress across the state? Yes, yes, yes...high winds, massive amounts of rain, closed down airports, flying rooftops, boats stuck in treetops...WE GET THE IDEA ALREADY!

Who needs fancy fractiles to feed your mind when you can just watch the Weather Channel and stare off hypnotically into these swirling weather vortex's like you were watching Fruitopia commericals on three hits of brown acid.

X-Files: The Stupid

Here's 90 minutes of my life I'll never be able to get back again. Bees, alien viruses, corn. Who knows what the fuck was really going on? I'm about as confused as blind man at an orgy. "It feels good, but I don't know what the fuck it is".

The only REAL question I really want answered is how in the hell does Agent Scully manage to not break her ankles running around in high heels? You'd think that if you were ever going to be stalking aliens and running around corn fields in the middle of the night while being chased by military search helicopters, you'd at least have the foresight to wear sensible shoes.

I can see the more likely dramatic scene playing out in my minds eye:

...*pantpantpant*...
"C'mon, Scully! Hurry!"
"I'm coming, Mulder!"
"Faster Scully! There's coming!"
...*pantpantpant*...
"I'm coming as fast as I can!"
...*pantpantpant*... SNAP! ...
"OH, OWWWW-EEE!! Muuuuuulder! I twisted my ankle running in my fashionable yet impractible platform heels, so take this alien bee syrum and go on without me! HURRY! "
"Whatever you say, Scully."
stompstompstompsto...

I'd leave her sprained ass there in a heartbeat.

Some uber-clever FBI agent!

Will Work for Haagan-Daas!

Today is a marvellous day here at Corporate Hell. Today, our cafeteria was blessed with an ice cream vending machine. Come lunchbreak, you could hear the collective clanging shut of the ventricle valves across the workfloor in joyous celebration.

Oh goodie, an ice cream machine! Now that the hot and humiod days of summer have almost passed and we move into the chilly winter season, we can now reward our work efforts with a cold, refreshing ice cream bar! Woo-ha! Because there's nothing quite like cooling off on those hot January work days with a nice Oreo ice cream snadwich. What next? Are they going to provide us a Hot Soup vending machine come next June? Thank you corporate powers-that-be!

They can't correctly calculate my monthly statistics to allocate my earned monthly bonuses, so they give me access to $3.00 'Nutty-Buddies' in the cafeteria. Boy, that sure makes up for any overdue monetary miscalculations. Shit, if they give me a Peanut Butter vending machine I will never have to leave work again or have to worry about monthly bonuses at all on my paychecks as any owed debt of gratitude will already be considered paid in full! They can just tap those empty calorie work incentives straight into my ass via IV-drip.

Oh yeah, I feel appreciated now!

Happy 46th Birthday, Michael!

Michael Jackson celebrated his 46th birthday yesterday with only a "low key" family celebration. Now, knowing and understanding typical Michael "Freakshow" Jackson standards for normality, I'm afraid even to wager a guess what this "low key" family celebration might have consisted of. But let's try nonetheless.

I am imaging it was spent at the 'Kids' Playground' area at the local San Bernardino McDonald's, with him pressing his nose up against the protective glass enclosure watching the children play with all the focused attention of a seafood afficienado trying to decide on which succulent lobster he'd like to dine on from the holding tank at a gourmet fish restaurant. "Hmmmm. I....think....i'll have......THAT ONE! The one wearing the blue Pampers and clutching the Care Bear."

What? Hey, it's better than hosting a huge pajama party sleepover orgy at Neverland Ranch isn't it? BYOB of course. "Bring Your Own Boy".