Give Me One Good Milkbone

Another sign that the apocalypse is indeed upon us is that Tracy Chapman’s classic ‘Give Me One Good Reason’ is now being used to hock gourmet dog food.

I could hardly believe my ears and stared fixatedly at the television commercial as if it was showing me my own death.

Et tu, Tracy?

Don’t you have enough fast cars already that you didn’t have to sell your soul to the Marketing Devil in order to advertise some Kibbles n’ Bits?

I guess we know what your “one good reason” really is, huh?

Nuke Nicole Ritchie!

Okay, I have to vent.

I *HATE* Nicole Ritchie! I’d love the chance to go all ‘Passion of the Christ’ on her snooty ass.

There has not been a word created to accurately describe the intense feelings of loathing that I experience when I see her smirking face spread across any the magazine covers in the racks at checkout aisles. Everywhere you turn – there she is. The bitch is like a bad rash in a cocktail dress!

I am instantly driven with violent impulses to haul off and donkey punch her square in the puss!

Why is she so popular? She looks like a retarded mule, for fuck sakes!

I simply cannot believe the extreme fascination that the popular fashion and gossip media has with this skank. It’s shameful!

How did the daughter of Lionel Ritchie ever get to be such a trendy, snotty rich bitch “celebrataunt” in the first place? Lionel was never THAT fucking cool folks!

It’s not like you see Gino Vanelli’s kids running around acting all hoity-toity!

Lionel Ritchie? Whoopee-fucking-shit!

“Everybody sing,
everybody dance
Lose yourself in wild romance
We're going to Parti', Karamu', Fiesta, forever”

I’d have my head buried inside a paper sack if that was the seed from which I was conceived!

From the recent headlines I’ve seen, she’s apparently “cleaned up her image” and happily engaged to Adam Goldstein, otherwise known as DJ AM.

DJ AM? How lame is that? Who the fuck listens to AM anymore besides dinosaurs and maybe the odd senior citizen? What a throw down that must be – my brain hurts just imagining it.

“Oh, what a feeling
When we're dancing on the ceiling
Oh, what a feeling
When we're dancing on the ceiling”

I say: “NUKE ‘EM BOTH!” Of course, I wouldn't be opposed to a good 'ol fashioned drawing and quartering either, just for kicks.

They turn my stomach quicker than soured milk.

For the Love of Porno

Now, my feelings on pornography aside, I am baffled why some people so proudly admit in public that that they love porn.

Yup, they love their porn like they love Elvis or 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'.

It doesn't bother or upset me that they choose to get their jollies off in this matter, I'm just more suprised that they also so brazenly announce it to the world around them! There's even the odd breed of pervo that will actually use their keen interest in the Smutty Arts as an actual opening for intelligent conversation.

"Hi! So I just saw 'Add Momma To the Train' last night, and I have to say: 'WHOO-WHOO!'. baby. It totally deserves to win the 'Best Anal' category at the Hot d'Ors Awards this year."

That's not something that I'm about to publically announce!

You can keep you perverted kinks and pleasures to yourself - I don't need to know what you like to tickle your sausage to in the privacy of your own homes, thank you very much.

Call me old fashioned!

I'm not so sure that I would want my friends and peers knowing that I like to sit at home on the weekend beating off to 'Barely Legal Cream Pies Vol.14' on DVD.

How could I ever look anybody in the eye again knowing they know THAT!

"Col. Mustard; in the Mens room; with the bathroom door!"

Lightning struck twice today in the Men’s bathroom at work – and it seems that I was the bolt of lightning!

Twice today I almost killed some poor new guy with the swinging door as I’ve been rushing in to take care of my urgent bidness. Not once, but twice, the heavy wooden door hammered into this poor bastards forehead as he was going to open it from the inside a split-second too late as I barged in.

It’s not a great way to start the day for either of us, me having to deal with being the cause of a tragic and untimely death of a fellow co-worker, and for him, well, being dead certainly wouldn’t have too many advantages, would it?

It was a brutal welcome for this new employee, fresh from the ranks of the “OJT” department.

I hope I don’t manage to kill him before his insurance benefits takes effect!

Wakemeup Before You Blow-Blow

I happened to take one of those “Wakeups” caffeine pills today at work from the girl who happened to be sitting beside me - purely for experimentation reasons, of course.

I’m not sure why I did. I'm the kind of person who lists "sleep" on the 'Interests' portion of my work resume. Perhaps it was just out of curiosity, or perhaps it was a instinctual throw back to my more footloose and fancy free University days of yore; but ultimately in about an hour or so, I expected to be literally bouncing off my cubicle walls like a hyperactive ADHD child after consuming a deluxe size Twix Bar.

Soon I was all sweaty and my eyes were bugging out like saucers, like somebody who’d just returned from an all-night rave party. I was twitching and tweaking and chewing at my fingernails like a trapped animal trying to escape its bonds.

It wasn't a pretty picture. I can only hope they never find the hole I started digging to China under my desk.

The recommended dosage on the package called for 1 or 2 of these happy pills every 4 hours as required.

Now, considering that each tablet contains the equivalent of a Jolt Cola enema, or at least a dozen cups of coffee or something – who needs that many tablets in the first place?

The “Wakeup” directions on the box also recommended not exceeding 8 tablets in any 24-hour period.

Holy shit! If I were ever to ingest 8 of these bitter-tasting peppy pink motherfuckers in a single day – I would probably be so fucking wired that I would be able to see into the future, and my heart would spontaneously combust inside my chest; forever putting me out of my workplace misery.

Not a good way to begin the workday at all!

Be like Jell-o

In a recent discussion among friends, the subject of self defense came up and our ability to handle ourselves in a physical threatening confrontation should it ever arise, came up. Now, I know don’t know about these other pretty bastards, but I was quite accustomed to receiving a five star ass kicking back in high school on a pseudo-regular basis.

One by one, everyone became consumed by the macho bug and were all soon eagerly relating the many miraculous accounts of bravery, as well as the details regarding their sharply honed self defense abilities in the face of pure evil.

Yeah, right! When unthreatened, everybody is Chuck Norris.

This got me thinking about my own “flight or fight” tendencies when faced with adversity. I have the defensive instincts of a bowl of Jell-o.

The “Jell-o Style” of martial arts, if you will.

Where some people square off to meet their aggressor head on and attempt to fight off the imposing threat; others instinctive reaction to turn tail and run as fast as they (hopefully, without a warm stream of fresh urine behind them), mine is to square off to my enemy and prepare myself to absorb the full force of the blow.

My body is not so much a temple as it is an open buffet. No lean, pious alter boy ever survived no back-alley mugging like a fatter, lazy one.

It’s not an elegant martial art, but it has allowed me to endure and survive numerous ass whooping’s in the past that would make Mel Gibson turn away in shock.

I’ve molded the excess fat on my body as a means of absorbing the punishment being doled out on my body by any aggressing party. If the opportunity presents itself – I would also recommend the shedding of tears and sobbing heavily to possibly stave off further beating by invoking a sense of pit in the attacking forces. Eventually, as your body begins to swell red and your bones begin to set, they will just grow tired and leave you alone to heal in a pool of your tears.

It’s an honorable form of self-defense – Tai Kwon Don’t. I am a black belt master capable of enduring the heartiest Steven Segal beat down possible.

I may not walk away unscathed, in fact I may require Emergency services and perhaps a helicopter Evac, but eventually when I regain consciousness and have re-learned to form constants and vowels, I’ll show ‘em who’s boss!

List-Making For the Materialistic Mind

I like to make lists – and I don’t give a shit who knows it!

I think there may have been some kind of repressed family gene passed down to me that makes it impossible for me to resist the temptation of compiling a list of ANYTHING!

I'm one of those people who make lists of other lists that I will also need to be making in the near future, in order to keep my person from being too disorganized, so to cause my physical body from being too blown away, and thereby breaking from the planet's gravitational field and spinning off uncontrolably into deep space.

Nothing is too trivial or unimportant to list; CD’s, videos, books, groceries, knickknack collections, life goals, things to do, etc. There is nothing that I haven’t at some included on a larger, more complete list. It’s not so much an instinct to inventorize and document all my stuff so much as it is an attempt to show off all the stuff that I actually have on my list!

It’s purely for materialistic pride.

“Look how big my list is – it’s huge! Your list is puny and insignificant, but look how impressive my list of shit is!”

This innate sense for keeping accurately tallied lists must be the result of a subconscious mental inadequacy for having such a lacking of any real substantial penis size.

Well, that, and that I want an accurate record of all my worldly possessions, because when the time comes for me to shuffle off this mortal coil, I will need to keep track of it all – BECAUSE IT’S ALL COMING WITH ME!

Conversational McNuggets

Some people are so painfully slow to talk to. So much so, that you’d think you were talking to a Chick McNugget instead.

You know the type of person I’m talking about – the type where you can literally hear the sands of time passing through their ears while they try to grasp the general gist of whatever it was you were just trying to relate to them. It’s one of those looks in the eye that reminds one of a D student trying to work out complex Calculus calculations inside their head.

Every time you try and initiate a conversation with them, it’s like you’re suddenly sucked into the pages of a John Steinbeck novel! You’re trying to figure out what they would like to order for lunch, and they’re talking about tending rabbits.

It’s almost painful to watch as you see them struggling with the most basic of concpets, it’s like staring into the eyes of a euthanized puppy – you almost want to put them out of their misery with the business end of a shovel.

Honestly, I would get more intellectually stimulating conversation out of the ‘Egg Plant Parmesan’ that I had for lunch.

Fillet o' Foul

There is a breed of human being that is perilously close to dying out and becoming extinct. This endangered species are those who still order Fillet o’ Fish sandwiches at McDonalds.

This small group of disappearing fast food patrons have been declining in numbers over the years, and are now dangerously close to being on the brink of being completely snuffed out of existence by the carelessness of man.

The natural universe continues on; it’s still “survival of the fittest” out there. Most intelligent life forms have figured out that McDonalds Fillet o’ Fish sandwiches will leave you inevitably “less than fit” and therefore most likely among the leading candidates to be dropped from Noah’s preverbal Ark.

Who the fuck ever orders these things?

I never see anybody ordering these obsolete devils sandwich! Who in their right mind orders fast food fish burgers?

Anyone who has evolved to the point of utilizing sticks as primitive tools will also know to leave the Fillet o’ Fish alone. Those things will kill you!

I wonder what a dedicated Fillet o’ fish connoisseur even looks like? I have an image in mind of some wild sasquatch creature shuffling cautiously out of the swampland in search of fresh Fillet o’ Fish combo specials. A kind of creature that you would expect to see passed out in a bathroom stall at an Allman Brothers concert.

They obviously can’t be the sharpest knife in the drawer if they still habitually order the dreaded Fillet o’ Fish sandwich off the McDonalds menu.

Even Neanderthals would have the common sense to at least order the fucking McDonalds salad instead!

Hell Is Bubbling Over For Dinner (Reprise)

So after rethinking the whole high explosive approach to home renovation – I decided to meet the natural disaster existing in my bathroom head on and wage war on these angry bathroom drain gods.

No retreat - no surrender!

In the process, there was a veritable tsunami of blood, swear and tears shed, which ultimately best helped to lubricate and wash away the caked up drainage refuse that had been formingd in my swamped out bathtub basin over the past 24 hours.

In preparation for this epic confrontation, I was quickly trained and drilled rigorously in the deadly use of a plumbers “snake” by my landlord.

All prior unpleasant connotations that I had initially had regarding the nasty concept of snaking out pipes quickly dissipated once I learned how to effectively manipulate this weapon of choice like Bruce Lee with a pair of custom designed nunchucks.

Actually, the whole process served to sexually arouse me. Here I’m ramming a high-tensor, high-performance tool into a dark, wet hole repeatedly until it was literally begging for mercy .. sadly, it’s the most action I’ve had in years!

What an uber-male way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon: a cup of strong joe, and bong hit or two, George Thurogood on the stereo, and snaking the shit out the bathroom drain with a dedicated primal vigor that I normally reserve for either sex or eating. That is, I think I enjoyed it far too much!

As I felt the snake skewer itself into the obstructing clog deep in the nether recesses of the drain pipe, before unlodging it an uncorked burp – I felt noble like the ‘Old Man and the Sea’. Letting the line slip between my fingers; the fight; the struggle; the landed catch; I bet Hemmingway too had a hard-on when he snaked his drainpipes!

There it was in all it’s gooey, fuzzy magnificence – the ball of accumalated cack that had managed to block up my bathroom drain and release noxious sewer stenches into my apartment; now laying on the bottom of my bathtub like a slain guinea pig.

I was so overjoyed that I could have hugged that grungy, gross-looking clot of generations of built-up pubic hair and dish setiment. I felt part big game hunter – part abstract artist. Needless to say; I liked snaked – way too much!

There is just something about the whole snakingprocess that just kick-started my testosterone production into overdrive. I guess it was the being in control of a tightly coiled, durable-yet-flexible, extendable spring that just screamed: “I’M ON TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!”

I’m sure Sigmund Freud would have something to say about this developed fetish; but fuck him – I don’t care.

I love snaking, and I don’t care who knows it!

Tim Horton's Horrorshow

I snuck off to Tim Horton’s today on my break – the first time I have such in well over a year now, since I have successfully managed to shake the popular Tim Horton’s monkey from my back.

What can I say? My flesh momentarily went weak! There was just something delightfully dubious about giving in to such an old guilty pleasure of mine on a sudden whim. It was like sneaking a cigarette behind the tool shed when I thought nobody was around.

But this indulgence soon reaffirmed to me why I have actively boycotted Tim Horton’s in the first place. I guess my faith and focus just needed to be tested one more time after this past year of self-rehab in order to continue building my natural resistance to this demonic cultural coffee phenomenon.

I always found it creepy that avid Tim Horton’s customers were so over-zealous in the first place about getting their regular fixes of Double-Double’s every day. If ever they have to go even a few hours without their precious “Timmy’s”, they are immediately reduced to cranky fits of shiverin, shaking, and complaining; break out in cold sweats; and otherwise carry on like a jonsing junkie in some back alley.

It’s very unsettling!

But today, I just craved one of their precious “Whole Wheat & Honey Bagel w/ Herb & Garlic spread” – go figure!

I was actually surprised that they served me since I have been under the impression that your Canadian citizenship was automatically revoked and you were shipped overseas to slave in some foreign mine if you ever failed to frequent your local Tim Horton’s at least once a day.

But alas, they didn’t require my passport and made no security checks into my past, and I received my bagel & cream cheese unceremoniously like every other Tim Horton’s rube in line - which, it shold be noted, was many.

In fact, there were so many glazed over, pleading sets of eyes in the place that it was like the small donut shop was being seiged by minions of mindless, caffeine-starved zombies.

I almost didn’t know whether to grab my Whole Wheat bagel and split like a Siamese twin, or just start ramming sharpened stir-sticks into people’s heads in order to defend myself against the impending zombie hordes.

I am happy to report that I made it back safely with my toasted shame unfettered and unharmed. However, I’m sure that it will be another year before I ever allow myself to indulge in this guilty pleasure again.

R.I.P. George Molchan

Today marks a dark day for carnivores and BBQ-holics everywhere – George Molchan, the spokesman for the Oscar Mayer meat processing factory for more than here decades, died at the ripe age of 82 years old.

He was notorious for traveling from town to town in the company’s “Weinermobile” like some kind of gay superhero, to appear in parades and supermarkets. This same 27-foot-long Weinermobile was parked near his grave at a cemetery in Merrillville, Indiana when he was buried.

Before priests said their final prayers, the 50 mourners sang a chorus of the Oscar Mayer jingle and then blew short blasts on miniature, hot dog-shaped whistles.

WTF? It’s like the bizarro Queer-Eye version of the planned Hunter s. Thompson funeral!

That’s some kind of legacy that this faithful steed of processed deli meats has left behind, huh? It will be with a tear in my eye that I toast this noble mascot over a flame-grilled red-hot tonight. I would also expect that all fast food restaurant banner flags will be lowered to half-mast.

The character of Little Oscar was created in the 1930’s by company founder Oscar Mayer (duh!) in order to help better market it’s products. Molchon played Little Oscar for 36 years.

What I really want to know is how this guy actually died! I bet it wasn’t completely due to “natural causes”.

I DEMAND AN AUTOPSY!

I would think that after 36 years of hocking processed chicken beaks, pig snouts, and horses hooves, that this guys cholesterol count would be through the roof! I bet Little Oscar's arteries were about as clogged as Willie Nelson’s shower drain, and his heart finally just exploded inside his chest after one too many “All Beef Sausages”.

Toe Hole Homicide

There was a hole in the toe of my sock today that drove me crazier than a basket of squirrels.

I could feel it poking through the ring of polyester in my sock like a fat rabbit trapped in its hole.

As the hours passed, I became more and more agitated with this annoyance had I been wearing sandpaper underwear. It was coming to the point where I was being steadily driven towards causing bodily harm – and I don’t mean my body!

The more irritated I became at having this constant discomfort in my shoe, the more I became nervous that I would uncontrollably snap completely and take out the innocent happy-go-lucky Syrian man that works be hind me with my keyboard.

“And goodz mornink to you, too!” WHAM!

The Single Person's Lament

Why is it that it’s normally the people who have either just recently separated from their boyfriend/girlfriend, or at least had somewhat of a healthy dating life (albeit with a sketchy track history) in the past, the ones to complain about not being able to find the right person?

How about the rest of us losers who haven’t dated, or even so much as had a pleasurable drunken one-night-stand in years? Are we not entitled to some kind of comeuppance from those around us?

Who gives a shit if you can’t find the perfect partner; at least you found comfort in the arms of someone who closely matched the profile! You still managed to get your freak on in some fashion or other - and yet you still expect me to feel sorry for you and sympathize with your plight?

Get bent.

Most of the nice girls I meet are either missing teeth or have a big toe growing out the side of their necks.

Where’s my sympathy?

Fashionable Flab

What’s with the trend in those fluffy women’s fashion and gossip magazines (those like: In Today, People, Star, etc) to feature incriminating photo spreads of popular celebrities all in their bathing suits while laying on white sandy beaches of some tropical island paradise?

In particular, these rag magazines like to focus on those less-than-flattering shots of Hollywood Stars baring their cellulite and loose folds of flabby ass fat hanging out from their micro-string bikinis that ultimately gives the impression that the material itself is being sucked up into their ass like dark matter into a collapsing star.

Why would anybody ever spend good money to see pictures of Uma Thurman’s flabby ass while she is vacationing in St. Dominique? Why shouldn’t she be scarfing down a few extra Honey Cruller and Ring-Ding’s and holding down a few other extra pounds – she’s on fucking vacation! Why is this so shocking? Christ – just sit on any bench in any public shopping mall and you’ll literally see mountains of blubber pass by you like a pod of whales on a shopping spree.

Now considering that %90 of the North American population is less than physically fit and has a few extra kilos of flab hanging from their lazy sedentary bodies – why should we be so fascinated with the slight bodily short-coming of noted celebrities?

I have the kind of physical body that would make the Venus de Milo double over with laughter, so the last thing I’m interested in is which celebrity may be hiding the odd stretch mark or love handle.

Stupid.

April Fools Day Massacre

Today is the Holy Grail holiday for assholes – April Fools Day. The one day of each year where every retard on the planet on the planet decides he’s suddenly funny.

Even the most cantankerous, humorless, and spiteful sourpuss can dust off his Whoopee Cushion and be an instant comedic god. How did such a noble concept for a nationally recognized holiday go so wrong? From the moment you leave the house you are constantly confronted by unfunny moolyaks who are attempted to yuk it up as if they were Robin Williams on crystal meth.

Only one fucking problem – they’re not.

It’s a good thing we Canadians are not allowed to arm ourselves in public, otherwise I’d be going all ‘Walker: Texas Ranger’ on every dipshit, moron, and rhubarb that should ever make the fatal mistake of pulling out a rubber chicken or ever asking me to pull their finger.

POW!

“Aprils Fools to you, motherfucker!”