Youth

People get old and die - fact. Its happening right now...And also now...Just a second ago a whole bunch of people played their last game of bridge, crocheted their last quilt. Happened. Happens.

Life is a heck of a thing you see, especially Youth. Oh how it is fleeting. Oh how I reflect on this, when my back hurts after a bout of drinking...

You see, Youth in many ways is like a day at the beach. You do not really have many worries, or responsibilities. You exist in a carefree environment, devoid of any of life's bastardizings. In this carefree state, you decide to purchase a basket of french fries.

Oh how they are tasty! Cut properly, with the skin still on them, tinges of salt and vinegar reflect on their fry bodies so perfectly, so effortlessly.

You enjoy the fries with glee, all the while saving the biggest most delicious fry for last. As it comes time to eat this last fry, the one that looks so perfect, so tasty, you decide;

"Heck, well I'm not even going to eat this one. It looks too perfect, and I've had so much fun eating these other fries, that I simply do not want this experience to end. Yes, I will save this one!"

It is at that exact moment that I menacing seagull swoops down and snatches the fry from its basket haven. Done with such effectiveness, and efficiency, it becomes clear that you are not the seagulls first victim.

Initially filled with rage, and fear you get up from your spot on Youth's beach, and give chase. Alas, the Seagull has wings, and can fly. You cannot compete with that. Your are left to watch as the Seagull coasts off into the sunset, fry in beak.

At that time, the beach begins to get cold. Annoying lifeguards starting bringing you things that you do not want, and telling you that you need to be "somewhere" at a certain "time". Clearly this beach is not as fun as it once was, however you see no way of leaving it - your options are limited. You begrudgingly accept your new beach. You convince yourself that it is "doable", and you set in for endless games of checkers, in which there are no winners.

Many years later, you look up in the sky, and see that same seagull flying back towards you! Perhaps he is returning with your Youth Fry!

Turning to express your joy with others on the beach you cry "All is not lost! My Youth Fry is returning, I knew this day would come."

The others at the beach shake their heads solemnly. You wonder why they are not happy for you...Again, at that exact moment the Seagull shits the digested remains of the "Youth Fry" onto your head.

MBW

Where are my Prizes?

Life is hard. I never win anything.
Perhaps it is for this reason that I developed a love for breakfast cereals at a young age. It was clear from the get go that I was a fan of milk, combined with sugary-shaped-corn substances. Pops? Grahams? Crunches? Heck yes - all of the above, please mom. However, this love was not strictly limited to the caressing of my fat taste buds.
No. I too was a fan of the super-duper prizes that were allotted for good boys and girls, whom purchased the cereals. Puzzles, bouncy balls, and the much loved cap'n crunch stickyhand-slappy thing! Oh sweet Jesus what a treat. What a special boy I am, what a life I lead! My delicious bowl of sugar and milk is all finished, and for being such a good boy, I get a prize! A dream come true.
Alas, I grew up, I grew bald, and I discovered that the world is an ugly, gloomy and rotten place.

Where in good heaven are the toys, cereal industry? Are you Nazis? Do you enjoy restricting the joy of children, and immature 26 year old men? I am assuming that you do.
I sense that it may not be good to announce publicly over the world wide web that I will burn down the head quarters of General Mills if I do not receive a bouncy ball soon, however it is a statement that I stand by - gas in hand.
With that being said, I would also like to leverage similar threats to Humpty Dumpty potato chips, and Pepsi/Coca-Cola - return to your ways of producing "free bag of chips" cards, and "free pop" tabs. This was a always a mystical joy for me. Oop, opp, did I win? I won!
How can you fat-cats sleep at night knowing that you are hindering countless children from mocking their friends by waving a "free 591ml" tab in their faces?

I do not give a rats penis if it is a "recession", I will burn your industry to the ground.

Also, I am on to you Popsicle Pete. I know that collecting those sticks amounts to Jack Shit. Where is my hoverboard Pete?
Where the fuck is my hoverboard?

MBW

Licences

Now, nearly everyone has a licence of some sort. Whether it be to drive a motor vehicle, perform surgery, or to kill, these things are rather common. Common as they may be, they do indeed vary, and it stands to reason that as numbers of people increase, numbers of differing licences will in turn go up.
With that being said, one can assume that in a large city such a Toronto, there will be a great number of varying licences; some more obscure than others.
This assumption manifested itself last eve, when I was having a jaunt through one of Toronto's more "lively" neighbourhoods; Sherbourne and Queen. I happened upon a kind woman, whose name I was not able to retrieve from her. However, her name did not stop her from pushing an eloquent conversation into my earhole.
Dressed in a stained Chicago Bulls T-shirt, unbuttoned trousers, and seated slouched in her wheelchair, her eyes floated 'round aimlessly in her head as she begun;

"Hey! HEY! Y-you know I have a licence to asses a pig on a string?"

My interest decidedly piqued I begged her to continue.

She then proceeded to explain to me how she had received this unique licence from "Doctor Astroturf", in Tweed, Ontario.

My word, I thought, I am in the midst of a professionally educated pig assessor! Pushing her for more, she stared blankly at me as if I was not there, and then began screaming about "The Government", and how they were responsible for taking away her feet. I thought that was strange fib, until I looked down to notice that her feet had indeed be amputated. Such I shame I mused; this must surely hinder her ability to assess stringed pigs.
I asked her if she would like me to take-down the Canadian Government in some way. She countered by asking me if I had any beer.
I said no.
Upset, She then asked me if I had any wine, or "fuckin' weed"
Again, I said no.
She then made a guttural sound deep within her throat. There was an odd pause as I waited for her to continue explaining to me how she obtained her licence to asses a pig on a string....It seemed as though she was no longer interested in talking with me, as she had begun making threatening comments about my involvement with "The Government", claiming falsely that I had given oral sex to The Prime Minister.

Ohhh licences,

Mr. Bacon Wagon

The Life of a Watermelon

Wow, I'm such a big watermelon! I can't believe that I used to be a wee little seed. Now look at me, brimming with confidence, green on the outside, red on the inside, full of flavour and pride!

Oh look! Its time to go! Farmer Brown is about to load me onto the truck! Yippie, I cannot wait to be placed for sale in a market or grocery store. It is my destiny to be eaten, just as it was the destiny of my watermelon forefathers. We Watermelons are a proud bunch, and the fulfilment of our life journey culminates, when we spread our loving goodness to a special group of people!

Wow, the truck ride sure was quick! Oooh look, my new home, Sobeys! What a place, seems nice, seems clean, lots of fun looking people here. I'm sure its just a matter of time before someone picks me up, and takes me to a picnic. Oop, there goes Geoffrey the watermelon! Take care Geoffrey, enjoy spreading your love to the people. Ah, he looked so happy.... I am so happy for him.

[Hours pass]

Hmm, its 3am, I have yet to be purchased. Oh well, I fear not, tomorrow is another day. Love, love, love. Oh, look, a tall bald man and his chum have entered the store. They seems to be quite happy, even though they are wobbling about a lot....

Oh, oh, oh, they are coming my way - here it is melly, its your moment, look fresh, think fresh!

Yes, yes, yes, they've got me. Destiny shall soon be mine. Fear not baldy, I will unleash a tasty explosion into your mouth. I will fill you with joy!

.....Hmm, whats this? Why is the bald man running out of Sobeys? No need to run at this hour, sir. Whats the hurry? Why all the insane laughter? Oh well....

....umm, bald sir, why have you stopped on this bridge? This certainly does not look like the place, nor the time for a picnic....

....F-fellows, w-what are you doing? I don't think you understand what I am to be used for....No, no, put me down, don't, don't, I will be killed!!!! No, no...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Smash,

MBW

Electronic Simplicity

I enjoy video games - simple ones. No crazy shoot-shoot. I do not want to build anything. I do not want to create a society, or world. And I certainly do not want to deal with any sort of wizardry.
This is why I am a lover of regular Nintendo. It is best, for a simple man such as myself. Their are only two red buttons, and the lowercase "t". This is acceptable.
Some games of note are; Super Mario Brothers and RBI baseball. These two games have the following in common;
- I would play them, rather than going outdoors on most occasions
- I have cursed violently many times, at their expense.
- I can play them for hours on end - especially when engaging in specific "intoxicants"
- If there was only one copy left on earth of each, and it was promised to me by the Emperor of the Universe, only upon my completion of a challenging quest, I would undoubtedly go on said quest, and champion it.
- In turn, I would live my days in a palace in the sky, playing the games on a majestic, jewel encrusted television, whilst eating an endless supply of Grilled Cheese Sandwiches. I would have a medium sized Hippo as a companion.

Goodness, pigs certainly do fly!

But yes; perhaps this simplicity is troubling? Is this realization of my lust for simplicity, then, a covert way of my brain telling me that it is feeble? Is this my brain saying;

"Sorry Ian, it is because I am not very good a thinking things alot, especsh' when they are hard. Keep it simple for me. Also - you should buy some prosciutto deli meat asap. We like that, and you never buy it."

Shut your goddamned mouth brain! So this is why I suck a calculus, eh! You rotten fleshy bastard!

Oh well, I suppose it is best to cope with the realization the only way I know how; by playing simple video games for hours.

Er... wait?

Mr. Bacon Wag

Recently in The World Wide World

Not a damn thing is going on in Australia that is of any importance
Not even the guy who fondled a woman when she was at her drunkest

While over in Asia things certainly are much bleaker
Heck, right now it has gotta be tough to be a Uygur

And the Russian Federation has got plans that are a'forgin'
Just like those poor Uygurs, it ain't a good time to be a Georgian

Actions in the Middle East, continue to get the world spooked
So Hilary is taking sides, hoping Iran doesn't get the Nuke

Europe, oh what a place! Especially in Italy
Show the money, have some fun, just like Burlusconi!

Africa, poor Africa, she is inexcusably neglected
With leaders like Charles Taylor not much can be expected

In Central America it can be risky to be a tourist
Although its also risky to be the President of Honduras

Hey honey want to take a trip to Tijuana?
Absolutely! Fun in the sun, and our heads placed up in a gutter!

To some, America is a free and wonderful place
But don't you recall the economy pooping upon your face?

Finally to Toronto, the place I rest my head
On a pile of rotten garbage collecting 'round my homestead

Ah yes when you look at it, this world has become defiled
Filling people with bad intentions, acting insane, acting wild

It seems a challenge to be positive in this day and age
And to top it all off, its been years since I've been layed

Were doomed,

MBW

Unbelievableness

Shia Labeouf?
Really? ...Shia? ...Lebeouf ?

Fuck,

MBW

A Conversation with an Machine

[Push. Push. PUSH. The Ipod refuses to operate. It refuses to complete the task it was specifically designed to do. It is simpl not working. In an effort to revive it, I strike up a conversation with the device]

"Yes, hello Ipod. How are you? Are things OK? Did you have a good night? I hope that you are feeling fine, as I want you to work for me. You after all are a machine, and I am a human. You were created by my fellow man. You are made up of wires, bits of metal, and plastics. You do not posses a soul, and in turn you do not posses the right to refuse operation. You must work for me when I demand. I want to listen to Whitesnake - Am I to assume that you are purposely hindering my ability to hear David Coverdale's awe inspiring lyrical prowess? If that is that case, you are making a grave mistake, for I am an easily angered individual, and I do not deal well with incompetence. Answer me, machine - what is your status?"

[I receive no response]

"You are walking a thin and murderous line, Pod. I have the ability to end you. Do you really want to end up in small urine covered pieces? Is this the end you envisioned? I command you to light up your face! I command you to allow me access to my digital music files, that are stored within your electric belly."

[Shake, push, shake....SHAKE PUSH!!]

"Rot in the fiery pits of hell, you vile contraption! You are an evil, and ignorant bastard! I wish only the worst upon you and your electronic brethren! You and your robotic ilk will never rule humans, with a quitting attitude such as yours, you bottom feeder!

[I proceed to shake my entire body violently, as to upset the machine. This is extremely gratifying to me, as I feel as though I have won! Ultimately however, I realize twofold; 1) My Pod still is not operational, and 2) I am on the Subway, and people are staring at me with judging/fearful eyes. I put away the pod, and for the remainder of the ride I sulk. Alone.]

MBW

Tallness

I have a powerful rant upcoming regarding height. I am a tall man, at six foot four and one half, therefore I am well versed on the ups and downs of height (especially for one who is my height). That however is not the direct topic of the blog. The direct topic of the blog, is height - to the extreme! With focus on the pitfalls associated with it.

If you are Shaquille O'Neal, your life is great. You are gifted physically with size, strength and agility. You are richer than Satan, and have great sense of humour and an excellent life approach (due in large part to your delicious piles of 1000 dollar bills). You can afford to customize things like cars, beds, pants, bowls, cutlery, toothbrushes, prostitutes, footstools, pipes, refrigerators, boxing gloves, rings, sandals, chess sets, and pogo sticks, to name a few. Your life is good. You are the Millionaire "Big Man on Campus" and everyone fucking loves you. Good for you sir, you have won the "life lottery" - I know your biological didn't bother, but that is beside the point.

Now, whats wrong with that you say? Not a fucking thing. However, not every human being between 6 foot 8 (beginning stages of "freak" height) and 7 foot 10 ("you cannot go outside, you monster" height) is blessed with the physical tools that humans such as The Big Cactus posses. Rather, they tend to be lanky loser types, who walk with a pronounced limpy gait, and have neck humps at the age of 29. Now this sucks for a number of reasons;

- People stare at you, and think you are a freak.

- You pants are too short.

- You hit your head on everything, but helmets are too small for you.

- You work a shitty job, and cannot afford a bed that fits.

- Your knees and back ALWAYS hurt.

- Bending to Pick things up from the ground? Ya, right.

- People constantly ask you, "How tall are you?". It fills you with rage.

- You actually suck at Basketball, and cannot even dunk.

- Your heart struggles, and you will die prematurely.

And so much more... For these poor bastards - the uncoordinated, tall, skinny, loser types life is a constant whore. At least midget can sneak around, and hide in small holes. You sir, are always there. You cannot hide, for I see your head poking up in the crowd. Yes, you can always reach the top shelf, and can see everything at concerts, but that does not make up for the myriad of frustrating problems that life throws at you. Your life sucks, I see you on the crowded subway train and I can read your eyes. I know your soul hates everything. Just be patient my tall loser friend, it will be over sooner than you think.

M B W

*I will be fleeing the city this afternoon to return Sunday. An excellent weekend to all! Have some burgers!

Art

Hello all, in case you have yet to hear, this morning a 20 foot long Basking Shark, has decided that basking in no longer in its best interest, and has washed ashore near Babylon, N.Y.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/31922558/ns/us_news-life/

Initially it was thought that the creature had died of dementia brought on by its old age, however upon further analysis it is clear that its death is a far more lurid one. As investigators peered into the body of the Shark, they saw what appeared to be a strange looking British man, drinking a cup of tea, whilst installing a disco ball and a wooden floor in the shark's body - Yes it appears the internationally regarded conceptual artist, Damien Hirst is at it again. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damien_Hirst)

Its seems that his 1991 Shark Themed piece entitled The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living was only the beginning of his artistic forays into large fish. When investigators pressured him for comment Mr. Hirst triumphantly declared "Attention unintellectual idiots, this is my finest creation. Whereas 'The Physical Impossibility' project was an examination of life and death - the ironies and falsehoods that we the people use to reflect upon our own mortality, I ultimately felt that it left something to be desired."

Pushed for more, Mr. Hirst put down his cup of tea, flicked on the disco ball, began strapping on roller skates, and continued,

"Look you morons, life is not all fun and games. Some of us have to work for a living, and I am an artist - working for a living. I have decided to use the Basking Shark's innards to make a statement. Life on this planet is decaying, and nothing can be done to stop it. However, in knowing this, future generations must regale in hot tea's and roller discos - or more pointedly, what I have deemed to be the zenith of 'fun'. However this 'fun' must not be 'basked' in, rather it must be hidden away, sheltered on the inside. This is 1984 my friends, we are all doomed."

Mr. Hirst continued to rant for several more hours, noting that "An auction will be held this afternoon, winner will be host to tea and dancing inside of the beast - bids start at 6 million pounds..." It was around that time that authorities were called in to remove him from the inside of the Shark. He brandished a speargun, and was then shot in both feet by New York State Police.

That is all,

MBW

Stale Air

To fart is to be natural. To pass gas is to adhere to a basic bodily function that has been around since man was man, and before (woolly mammoths farted. T-Rex's? Probably). However now that we live in a "decent" "society", one must curtail the fartings, and be aware of their location before sullying the air. In my humble opinion this is horseshit, however for the betterment of mankind, and to avoid jeers/ridicule/stigmas it behoves me to abide.

However, if I am around good friends (whom I want to upset), or alone, I will expedite gas into the air with rampant fury, and disregard. I will often times revel in my abilities "Oh sweet Moses, that could kill a donkey", or "Hey fellas can you take a whiff of that pepper-brush! Wish I could bottle that one for later, eh chums!"

Even the audible notes of a great ripper can be satisfying - applying pressure to the sphincter to fire off a seven-second M-16 like battle cry of dominance.

All excellent adventure in gases, and farts! Splendid actives, indeed - alas done in privite, not in the public domain.

However, as much as I try to curtail my stinks in public, from time to time they sneak out of my region, and into the nostrils of the unsuspecting public.

I do recall one such occasion;

I was visiting New York City with some chums, and in turn was ingesting a constant stream of beer, pizza, (cheap) vodka, and deli meats. This left my innards feeling like a cement truck full of poison on full spin. While riding an extremely busy Subway, I felt a sudden urge to deposit air - normally this urge would be rejected by the brain "No, we are on a crowded train. No!" However in my hungover state, my brain had been rendered useless. It was focused on keeping my heart pumping (somewhat), and preventing an oncoming alcohol-induced anxiety attack.

Therefore it was unable to block my anus's fart request, and a hot cloud of fear was unleashed. It was thick! It had character! It felt as thought it possessed weight, and on this train it had NO WHERE to go. Such a dense cloud of air, its stench was intense, and immediately had nearly everyone disgusted, and looking around for the culprit. It did not help that my chums a) knew my propensity to drop shark-breath like gas bombs, and b) they witnessed my sheepish look.

I was outed. Fingers were pointed. They cleared away from me as if I were a leper. Strangers shook their heads. Laughing, and sheer mockery was now my reality.

That was when I noticed the elderly Asian man, who was sitting at ground zero (that is to say, directly beside my asshole). He was cringing in pain, with a deathly expression on his face - looking as though he was having trouble breathing. He began bobbing his body up and down in his seated position, as if he were entering a meditative state, "Go away from this place, you are on 'Jasmine Island', or in a Bakery. Go far far away".

I was shocked that he was able to take this punishment, as he was currently the only person within 7 feet of the blast. It was he and I, surrounded by shaming eyes. I felt bad. As if I had taken a few years - or at least months off his life.

Mercifully after a minute or two it was my stop (yes the fart was still eye burningly present). I got off the train, to a string of insults, and went on with my day.

Later that evening, I couldn't stop thinking of the elderly gent. Was he still alive? Had his family come home to find him dead on the floor? Will their be a toxicology report? Did I poison him? Is this a crime? What are the laws in New York State regarding Manslaughter? Do I need to seek legal counsel? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

With that, someone handed me a (cheap) vodka drink, and I attempted to put the incident out of my mind...To this day however, I still feel guilt...So if you are reading this in heaven, elderly Asian man, I apologize.

Fart,

Mr. Bac Wagon

Hippo Confusion

I am an animal lover. Especially Hippos. This is why I am sad today. This is why I am crying today.

I am banned from the zoo, forever readers. Escorted out via zoo security. Verbally assaulted, shamed and told to never return. For me, this is shattering, since I only had the best of intentions. I am not always the smartest of men, and am often manipulated by popular culture, and the television, and the world wide web.

How was I, a child of the 80's and 80's board games to know that Hippos do not like silver marbles? How was I to know that? Its not as if I went out of my way to hurt the majestic maidens of the shallow. I love them, and just wanted to fill them with joy - and marbles. What better way to make them happy than to give them their favorite food, silver marbles. Why would I go out of my way, (spending all of the money in my piggy bank) to buy 3500 silver marbles to feed to the Hippos, which I assumed were indeed Hungry Hungry.

I knew these fuckers were big, and I figured 3500 was a fair number. But, ohhhhhhh "Sir, what do you think you are doing dumping a satchel of marbles into that Hippos mouth. He is choking on marbles sir", "Sir, come with us, sir. You are in trouble!"

My diatribe of, "Hippos like Apples? Poppycock! A majestic beast such as that eating something that my grandmother would eat on a Sunday morning? Pshhshhht! No. The Hippo eats silver marbles. The Hippo eats whale heads, rebar, and blocks of concrete! Apples, I think not!!" as I was being ejected did not attract any sympathy towards me, and I will note that people began hissing at me, and throwing hot drinks in my direction.

I hate zookeepers, they are unaware, un-experts.

M. B. Wagon

Questions about talkings

From time to time I go out in public. Occasionally in these time times, I am accompanied by a chum (pal, friend). Seeing as how I hang around reprobates, our conversations will more often than not sway into "blue" territory. This is usually fine, since we keep to ourselves, and when people see us laughing they assume (I assume) that we are discussing cute looking penguins, and how they make us laugh with their cuteness.

In actuality the topics are horrid, and inappropriate. Luckily for us, they cannot hear us - luckily for us they assume. However sometimes my friends and I will be chatting and our voice power will increase. Our normally muted private conversations about lewd topics become dangerously audible. This is usually due to the introduction/consumption of Gin and Whiskey.

So, my question is when my friends and I are conversing about;

Boners ______ mmmm _____ ahahhahah _____ fucking tool shed! _____ TIGHT TIGHT TIGHT ________ and_______ sacks and sacks of _______, ____ , and ____? Oh ya _____ ____, trunk of a car _____. Hahahhaha, _____, _____, blood!!! Dandelions, rainbows, and ____ _________! Oh man, oh man, hahahaha _________, wheelchair, ____ _____small Velcro shoes ______!!!

if someone overhears this in a public place, can I be ushered directly to prison, for rounds of sodomy? If the answer is "Yes, you certain can be detained", then I should probably not leave the house nearly as much when alcohol, friends, and no regard for limits, taboos, or acceptable conversation topics are mixed together.

Have a good day, fuckos.

M. B. W.

Meatmares

There is nothing wrong with being a vegetarian, I suppose.  To each his or her own.  However, I myself am not one, nor will I ever consider it.  For me, the taste of hot animal flesh, and skin is decidedly excellent. 

With that being said; there are certainly pitfalls associated with being a lover of animal flesh - heart disease, stroke, depression, etc...  One of the more glaring, however is what I fearfully refer to as "Meatmares".

What are Meatmares you ask? Meatmares deal with the phenomena that occurs whilst sleeping immediately after ingesting mass amounts of meat.

Perhaps, one was intoxicated, and decided that it would be an excellent idea to consume two street vendor Hot Dogs at 3.30am.  Or maybe, you and your food loving friend attended an all-you-can-eat Korean food (shaved meat) buffet.  These are just two fine examples of the origins of Meatmares - both of which I have inflicted upon myself quite recently.  Now, these eating adventures, are done in good faith.  We meatlovers (although perhaps accused in some circles) are not sadists.  We do not seek out pain, especially through meat consumption.  These eating binges occur with only the most honourable intentions.  "Hey, meat is delicious, don't you agree? You do? Great, lets eat lots!"

And so begins the Meatmare.  After the consumption, a Meatmare will only occur (as mentioned above) if the meateater, seeks sleep straight away* 

The meatmare itself, usually consists of a terribly awkward, and unsettling feeling within your mind.  You begin to heat up uncontrollably, as you cascade into a spiraling sea of red - as if you are entering into the stomach of a possessed bovine.  Your body, lays functionless on the flaming red floor, while the walls breath in and out violently, and beads of salt extrude from the red roof, and fall onto your body.  Spinning inside the stomach, the Meatmare now goes into overdrive.  Evil looking cows, and pigs dressed in farmers clothing, stand over you, and assault you verbally.  You begin to cry painful tears, made of hot sauce.  The creepy noises from The Shining begin to play in the stomach, as large flaming words flash in front of you "Steak", "Salt", "Heart", "Gout", "Hot-Hotness".  Augh! You are feeling so odd now, so out of place, the cows and pigs are laughing at you, mocking your discomfort.  You ask the pig "Please don't give me anymore squid-bacon.  Salt makes me icky", he does not listen, and pulls a lever, sending a large pile of HOT salt directly onto the part of your chest where you heart is.  You scream! That its, I am dead, my heart is going to explode!!! Help me Jesus, please help me!!

And with that you awake.  Soaked in sweat, covers kicked to the floor, immense dry pain in the chest, but happy to be alive.  Your body says "Water Motherfucker, Water!!"  You get up from bed, and walk to the kitchen whilst saying something to the effect of "Fuck these meatmares, I cant deal with too many more Sodium Attacks, they are fucking me up real good.  No more late night Korean BBQ"

You chug the water, take a deep breath and go back to sleep - Within two weeks, you find yourself, drunk at a Korean BBQ at 4am.  The cycle continues.....

Savory Dreams,

Mr. B. Wagon

*Perhaps, you felt a bit odd after you meat binge.  A little hazy, and sad.  Be cautious sir, for you are Food Drunk.  You mustn't rest you eyes, since being Food Drunk, will lead straight into a meatmare, if you drift to sleep.  Consult H2O immediately.  Breath deeply, and do not panic.

Little Wing(s)

Flying in planes in scary, no matter how drunk you are. This is especially true, when one flies in those little assed planes. You know, the ones that have spinny blades, as opposed to super jets. Now, I know that the spinny blades might be better suited for murdering birds, in that the bird carcass would seemingly whisk through the blades, as opposed to getting stuck in the engine - causing issues/deaths. However this is not the point.
The point is that little planes are little, and they terrify me. This is why, I recently deposited metaphorical scat into my pants when I was forced to fly on a mini plane to rural Northern Ontario; a place where bears have no mercy, and wolves eat old people. I now will outline a few reasons why I hate little planes;

Nature: Mother Nature is a strong and powerful she-bitch. She will blow, and she will strike lightning. In all planes these can become dangerous factors. In a small plan however, these natural elements can shake the fuselage like a horrible mother shakes her baby. I am not into front flips, and I have not consumed enough wine pre-flight to make that though seem out of the question, or at the very least humorous.

Unnecessary Cockpit Exposure: I am not a schizophrenic, but how am I to assume that the odd looking man, who smells of "non-showers", is not. This is a troubling thought, for you see on Bear Skin Airlines - yes Bear Skin - apparently security is about as important as, well a professional company name. The Cockpit is open in these planes, friends, yes open. As if to say, "oh hey there danger, come on in!!". This is a perfect opertunity for any downtrodden suicidal loser, or outright lunatic to barge in, stab the pilot in the neck and smear his hands on the controls like an asshole in an elevator, sending us spiraling into a frozen lake. I do not want to this to happen. I am however convinced, that it is going to occur at some point.

Press Coverage: If I am to plummet to death in an airplane, I at least hope that I am in a nice big one. First of all, it will take out more stuff (why not go out with a bigger bang), and secondly the sexiness of a massive plane crash, causes the world wide media to collectively ejaculate. Hence, I would be getting some serious press!! Also, there would be more people on the plane to expose myself to, while yelling in a nonsensical, and deranged manor. A little plane goes down, and no one gives a rats ass. More often than not people say something like "Fucking idiots, that's what they get for flying in a little plane!"

Shady Unexpected Maneuvers: I am no aviator. I do not own a bomber jacket, but I am only assuming that the standards to become a pilot on a small plane is significantly lower than on a Jumby. Seemingly, if I were to go into the head office of Bear Skin airlines, drunk out of my mind, eating a hot dog, and threw a paper airplane at the CEO, he would kiss me on the hands, and give me the keys to a small aircraft. I am assuming this, based on my TERRIFYING mid flight experience, when without warning our plane (which was currently descending), shot up like a Viagra infused penis, sending fecal matter straight into my Stanfields. "What in the holy fuck was that" I screamed. It seemed as though, that just the pilots way averting death, since he "reallllly couldn't see a thing cuzza all the snow". Oh good. Better take another run at it, while I drink my entire bottle of mouthwash.

Seems like that's it folks. Lots more on this topic, but for now I think you all know how I stand on small planes.

Fly safe,

M. Bac Wag.

Gadgets and Contraptions

Hello,

Recently I was given a really neat fan as a gift. It has a Liquid Crystal Display, and features a remote control, which allows me to make the fan oscillate, and blow harder/softer from the comfort of my toilet seat. This is great fun, and I do enjoy it's novelty, and the fact that it enables my extreme laziness. While some scientists are tackling unimportant issues such as infectious diseases and the like; there exist truly noble nerds who are dedicated to inventing things like, a beer dispensing mini-robot hippo, or an automatic ass-wiping machine (I hope, and I hope). These are the true hero's of the lab-coat wearing world. Dweebs who rest easy at night knowing that they are making a difference in society.

This is why I thought I would overview some of my favorite gadgets that are currently on the market, and loath the fact that I do not possess them;

1) KITT: What a sweet ride he would be to have. To hell with the cold, penis-shaped Bat Mobile. I need a comforting voice to assist me in placing my drive through order, and then helping me justify it, by reassuring me that I am indeed sexy. I know KITT would be down with that. I would also like to install a chocolate milk dispenser in him, and I know that he would make sure that the milk was always ice cold for me. In exchange for his loyalty, I would purchase I hot pink Honda Prelude for him to have Carstercourse with.

2) Ghost Buster Proton Pack: How many times have I got up in the middle of the night to go pee, but been too scared of ghosts to make it to the bathroom? So many. That's how many. I do not want to turn the lights on, since, a) its stings my eyes! And, b) I do not want to agitate the ghosts. However with this sweet gadget, I would be able to go at anytime of the night to my hearts content! No more painful 5 hour urine induced erections for this guy!!!

3) Penny's (Inspector Gadgets Niece) Magical Book: Solving crimes, and putting a monkey wrench in various capers are things that I do not undertake. This is unfortunate, since I feel as though I would look good in a trench coat, and sleuthing hat. However, if I were to procure Penny's magical problem solving book, I would be set. I am also assuming that it could order me a pizza, or at the very least possesses a phone, with which I could call KITT and tell him to "Go get me a fucking pizza".

4) Dick Tracey's Watch: "What a bad ass timepiece Mr. Gordon", is what people would say, if I were to acquire this little diddy. Whoa, an AM/FM radio built right in? Yesiree!!! I can listen to Top 40, or even catch the local news on this sonofagun. I could maybe even order a fucking pizza with it.

5) G.I. Joe/Cobra laser: Blue or Red, I am not picky. Sure, they've got lasers now that can eliminate the hair on your back and genitals, or even fix your eyesight, but that is crap. I want a laser that can shoot a man dead, if he looks at me sideways. "Do not screw with me pal" is what I would probably wind up saying frequently. There is a 100% possibility that I would duct tape it to KITT, and shoot the heck out of things with it. The heck out of things.

What a drunken world of gadget fantasies I live in!! This must end, I must come back to reality, and end my dreams of gadget related orgies, and world domination.

Tuna for dinner tonight. I will use a manual can-opener to get to the mercury laced fish meat. Reality bites.

M. B. W.

Hip Hippy to the Hippity Hip Hop

Hello all,


Today is a day. Yesterday was also a day. During the day of yester, I attended a Hip-Hop show! T'was a grand time, many a beat was bumped, and many a lyric was spit (or perhaps spat). I am a fan of the hippity hop. Have been for many years; which is why I feel that I have the expertise to guide the non-learned hippity-hopper. Why would this person need my guidance you ask? Well, the world of The Hippity, can be a strange and tricky one. You see there are many do's and many do-nots in regards to styling, dancing, spiting, crunking, disc-jockeying, master of ceremonying, and the like. Therefore, if one was attempting to enter into the world of hippity, it would be wise to be casually versed in a few of these elements. This is where I come in. Being a foremost expert in all things hippity hop, I will attempt to familiarize the layman (nerd, geek, square) in the world of cool (rap music). For today's lesson, I will be tackling the aspect of lyricing, which also encompasses but is not limited to; spitting, flowing, and occasionally busting rhymes.
I will now begin with an evaluation and translation of a famous "spitting" of "bars" - which of course refers to expressing your disgust with a watering hole, because they refused to let you casually rub yourself in the corner of the Establishment. (Please remember that I am an expert).

Bar Spit example: This is a spitting by Lil' Turk which is featured on the "track" Bling, Bling by rap artist B.G., who is part of the Cash Money Millionaires. (yes it is OK to be confused). Lil' Turk says;

Got so much ice you can skate on a brotha

When you see cash money you know we stay flossin

Catch cha girl down bad ya know we straight tossin

I aint seen a click yet that can stunt like mine

I aint seen a marette that can run like mine

Pourin vodka til I die drank til I faint

Poetic Genius? Shakespeare, Robert Frost et all, eat shit? Well, yes. This is pure brilliance, and I can firmly say that Lil' Turk is more relevant and superior to Jesus Christ in every way. However, chances are you were not privy to this brilliance, and it begs translation, since you are probably a stupid idiot layman. Fair enough layman, here goes a line by line explanation

Got so much ice you can skate on a brotha: Turk has a large ice rink is his backyard. It is free for your skating pleasure.

When you see cash money you know we stay flossin: The members of his crew pratice effective dental hygene, several times a day, regardless of where they are.

Catch cha girl down bad ya know we straight tossin: Chances are, if Turk bumps into your girlfriend, he will ask her to engage in a game of catch, even though he knows she is not that good.

I aint seen a click yet that can stunt like mine: Here he is refering to "chick", clarifying this, we now know that Turk owns an extremely talented baby chicken; it excels in numerous circus acts.

I aint seen a marette that can run like mine: Strange but true, Turk has managed to genetically modify a fish ("marette"), giving it lean, muscular legs. It runs faster than all other fish - what a love for animals he possesses!!

Pourin vodka til I die drank til I faint: Turk is able to come back from the dead, and uses this talent to his advantage in drinking competitions.

There you have it, geeks. You are now a hipper-hopper. Feel free to dance.

Till next time, G's.

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Peanut Butter

First off, I apologize fair audience. I have been slacking on the blog, and the blog has suffered in turn. It is hard for you to read my musings, in blog form if I am not bloging. This inconsistency, has nothing to do with you, or your mothers. It does however, have everything to do with my propensity to consume alcohol and mild drugs. Especially when the weather is fair. Summer air coerces me into poor decision making, and I stand firm in taking no responsibility for my actions.
With that being said, I will get to todays topic: Peanut Butter.
Fuck I love it. I am not concerned with the fact the when I was seven years old, I put my entire fist in the peanut butter jar, and ate a scoop that was much to large for my mouth. I remember distinctly choking on the landing in my childhood home, going red in the face, and panicking as my mother came in, and screamed "IAN!!! WHATS WRONG?!" I pointed to the open jar that was cussed onto the floor, and then gestured in a frenzy to my pathetic mouth. She proceeded to poor me a hefty glass of milk, and violently shove it down my throat, all the while telling me to "Chew, and fucking breath!!!!!"
I did. I lived, and for the next six weeks was banned from eating PB, since my mother lived in fear that she would come down the basement one day, and see my bloated corpse, dead as fuck, slowly vomiting, regurgitated peanut butter out of my fat Young mouth.
I did however get over that spell, and for many years I have been living a sexy, and productive life in regards to my peanut butter consumption.
In my adolescent years, I seemed to be slightly more innocent, consumption wise. I would not be as liberal, and would be limited in when I could eat PB, and in turn what I could put it on. But let it be clear, even though I was under the rule of law that existed in my parents house, I still managed to eat my fair share of the good stuff, whether it be on a piece of bread or simply off of a spoon - or the ultimate - if know one was home, off of my thumb naked, with my other hand rested firmly on my penis.
However shit really got real, in the PB world when I when to university. I lived off of it. I ate it drunk. I ate it sober. I ate it with cheese, I ate off of any surface. I did not care. It was as though I was an addict in East Couvie, but my hit was not the China Grey, but the sweet Squirrel nectar. I was hooked, and quite frankly still am.
Although the above is shameful, and disgusting, it still has its positives. Positives, which stem from the pure love that I achieve from PBs erotical consumption. I have had many dark nights, thinking alone about my obsession, however my dark thoughts eventually become clear - I am not the only one it this position. Clearly, others love this fucking stuff as much as I, and due to that my soul is free. I am part of a club. Regardless of its pathetic, and obsessive nature, it is still a club, goshdarned it. Peanut Butter lovers unite.
My we all parish in a flow of murderously hot liquid peanuts.

Sex.

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Canada

Hello all,
Today is Canada Day, the 142nd birthday of this wonderful moose filled country. This is how I plan on celebrating the day;
Straight way, I will strap on a pair of snow shoes, and cover myself in maple syrup, while watching Don Cherry's Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Volumes II - VII. I will then drink 485 millilitres of Canadian Whiskey. This will cause me to drunkenly stumble into my bedroom and fill my open palms with as many nickels as they will hold. I will then place the nickles in a hot oven. Starting a frying pan, I will cook 14 densely cut pieces of Canadian Bacon, and then cover the bacon in the hot nickles. Going down to the basement with hot nickle-bacon in hand, I will crawl into my "igloo" (which is made of Styrofoam), and watch a documentary on Niagara Falls. Rubbing a pickled beaver corpse on my naked syrup covered body, I will become elated, and decide to call the RCMP and ask to speak directly to Smokey The Bear. Next I will ingest high potency British Columbia Marijuana into my lungs, and consume another few hundred millilitres of the whiskey. Finally, I will high jack a Boeing Aircraft, land in Yellowknife, and ride a "Freedom Polar Bear" to Alert, while brandishing a Lacrosse Stick that I purchased from The Hudson's Bay.

Goodnight,
Mr. Bacon Wagon