"Faaak", Jim Calden, sitting alone in his large office, behind an expensive looking oak desk, was at his wits end. His chocolate business; his family's chocolate business, was about to close its doors, and he was about to lose his shirt. The Calden's had been making gourmet style chocolates since the 1950's when his Grandfather Fredrick Calden opened the business, in a tiny little store, on the main strip of Brogberg, Manitoba, a small quaint town of about 1500. Business was always steady for Calden's Chocolatiers, however since he had taken over as President, it had really been booming. With his savvy, he had taken their small store, and built a miniature empire, of sorts. Focusing on their town-famous "Calden's Chocolate Chicks" ('delectable chocolate eggs, filled with an array of flavours, from peanut butter, to mint and all things yummy'), he invested heavily in marketing and advertising, taking these "Chicks" from 'town-famous', to North American phenomenon.
It couldn't have worked out better; a big factory on the outskirts of town, a sexy mansion, and a fleet of cars were his rewards. Oh, and of course a rampant drinking problem, that proved to be his downfall...
"Werre did'a ulll g'wrongggg?", he mused to himself. Looking towards his outstretched hand, which casually grasped what was once a full pint of Drambuie. "Uoooggohya! Thas'werre!", laughing, he climbed onto his desk, and began a slow waltz, shuffling his feet about, knocking items to the floor, with no regard.
Drunker than a Muskie, Jim closed his eyes, and recounted the fateful events that lead to him driving the company in the shitter.
It all started one day, when Jim arrived for work, drunk (as usual), wearing only underwear, with his legs painted bright orange, and declared the need for a contest to, "spice the fuck out of the shit". Confused, and ashamed, his round table of advisers, listened in to what they all knew would undoubtedly be another one of Jim's drunken follies (such as the time he brought in two call-girls and declared it "Hooker Day", or his attempt to banish shoes from the workplace, and replace all of his employees, with empty bottles of vermouth). These drunken tirades had become rather common place, however today's idea seemed even more strange...
Jim began "Owwkay, so we'needa Willy Wonka the fuck outta this friggin place! We need'a contest that'll make people love us chocolate eggs, an'a I gotsit figered, while you jerks were'asleepin'! We need'a magic egg!" ...He paused awkwardly, looking confused, as it he had suddenly lost his train of thought... "Ah! Ahhha!", He continued, "What da chickens have in their eggs? Ug? Eyh? Ennawun? Eggsalas, thatswha! Eggmotherfuckinsalas! One lucky egg'll be full'd up with eggsala', an'a the lucky winner'll getta come here, and have a whiskey-slut party wi' me! Wi Jimma, and his band'a sluts!! Yeaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"
After his speech, Jim felt his heart demand for rest, and fell asleep in the boardroom for 6 days. He woke up to his C.F.O., Farley Jenkins wrapping him on the back. The look in Farley's eyes suggested something was indeed wrong.
Mr. Jenkins explained that after his latest drunken exploits, they put his plan into action, and filled one chocolate egg with egg salad. Jim explained how he remembered none of this, and suggested that Farley stop talking to him, as he was very weak, and hungover, and that his urge for McDonald's prevented him from "giving a fuck".
However, Mr. Jenkin's persisted, and what he said next struck fear into the head of Jim's Penis:
Some schmuck had eaten the 'Magic Egg'; that schmuck had been deathly allergic to actual eggs, had dropped dead, and in turn his Family was suing Calden's Choclatier for many millions. Farley then slapped Jim in the testicles (which were flopped outside his underwear), handed in his resignation, and prompted left the boardroom.
Jim began to cry. What had he done? What had he become? Watching the tears trickle, and blend down his still orange legs, he knew he was finished.
That was three days ago. It was night now, and Jim, coming back to reality, fumbled down from his desk, and left his office. He proceeded through the empty factory, looking dreamily at what once was, and outside into the brisk Manitoba winter. He began to solemnly walk down the main road, and after a few minutes, reached his final destination. At the large farm, he entered the Chicken Coop. Those dastardly Chickens! Those wicked egg hatching Nazi's! I see it now, he thought, yes, it was all their fault! It was time he thought, for the Chickens to have their ultimate reward; to take his life. Drunkenly, he lay on the floor of the coop, awaiting the razor sharp beaks, and vicious talons.
The chickens did nothing, but in his state, Jim passed out in the floor of the coop.
His body was found the following morning, frozen solid, and covered in chicken shit.
Fin
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Guinness Rational?
Recently I have developed a rampant, and insatiable taste for Guinness. It is a fine ale that can be enjoyed during a hearty meal, or simply whilst taking a bath.
This lust however has landed me in hot water, morally.
Guinness, of course costs money, and I am unable to procure its essence for the price of "free". I must pay one green Canadian Bill, and one Silver and Gold Canadian coin for 8 tins of Liquid Jesus Beard (Guinness).
This is unfortunate, since I have been unemployed for many months. This personal streak of Sloth, has left my bank account whittled, like an un-loved petunia. I cry for money, yet it evades me like an attractive woman.
"Fuck", I say. What a pickle. What a Dill.
I want Guinness - no, I need it. Thus, I purchase it on a credit card, that has no merit; a credit card that mounts heavy, and depressing monetary woes into my soul. A credit card, that I have absolutely no intentions of dealing with in a responsible manor.
Here is my pickle: Can I sleep at night? Can I lay head-to-pillow, with such heavy "Fake Money" debts? In short: Yes. You see, if I was not to procure said Guinness at the LCBO, I would crave for it to the point where I would push innocent humans towards concrete, in order to dive into my local dive, and drink sweet Guinness at an inflated rate. My initial denial of Dark Beer, will undoubtedly lead me to a shameful bar hoping state, in which I will eventually adorn a tight fitting Jean Jacket, and seek out only the dimmest parts of bars, and intimidate members of the opposite sex, with calls of "Yo, Butter Nipples", or ",Heyyyyyyy there sweetheart, wanna let me churn your baby faucet?".
This will lead to ostracism, from all but the filthiest of purveyors of Guinness. I will live a life of Fast Paced Walks Down Yonge Street; hands akimbo, swears a'prevalent. I will subsist off pure Street Vendor Sausage, and ill gotten canned meats.
Since I need Guinness, I must confine myself to "Cheap Guinness". After all, it keeps me at home, and that also happens to be where I keep my extensive pornography collection.
MBW
This lust however has landed me in hot water, morally.
Guinness, of course costs money, and I am unable to procure its essence for the price of "free". I must pay one green Canadian Bill, and one Silver and Gold Canadian coin for 8 tins of Liquid Jesus Beard (Guinness).
This is unfortunate, since I have been unemployed for many months. This personal streak of Sloth, has left my bank account whittled, like an un-loved petunia. I cry for money, yet it evades me like an attractive woman.
"Fuck", I say. What a pickle. What a Dill.
I want Guinness - no, I need it. Thus, I purchase it on a credit card, that has no merit; a credit card that mounts heavy, and depressing monetary woes into my soul. A credit card, that I have absolutely no intentions of dealing with in a responsible manor.
Here is my pickle: Can I sleep at night? Can I lay head-to-pillow, with such heavy "Fake Money" debts? In short: Yes. You see, if I was not to procure said Guinness at the LCBO, I would crave for it to the point where I would push innocent humans towards concrete, in order to dive into my local dive, and drink sweet Guinness at an inflated rate. My initial denial of Dark Beer, will undoubtedly lead me to a shameful bar hoping state, in which I will eventually adorn a tight fitting Jean Jacket, and seek out only the dimmest parts of bars, and intimidate members of the opposite sex, with calls of "Yo, Butter Nipples", or ",Heyyyyyyy there sweetheart, wanna let me churn your baby faucet?".
This will lead to ostracism, from all but the filthiest of purveyors of Guinness. I will live a life of Fast Paced Walks Down Yonge Street; hands akimbo, swears a'prevalent. I will subsist off pure Street Vendor Sausage, and ill gotten canned meats.
Since I need Guinness, I must confine myself to "Cheap Guinness". After all, it keeps me at home, and that also happens to be where I keep my extensive pornography collection.
MBW
Friday, October 2, 2009
Rain
It is raining today. I feel like I need to be in a basement. I want to ignore you, rain. You are not my friend today. I am not in a desert, I am not in close proximity to a raging wild fire - I do not need you!
I am a lazy human. A lazy human, who even on nature's very best of days still struggles to accomplish even the most maligned tasks.
A delicious 25 degree summer day, offering itself to me - in all of it glory - will still be ashamed to know that I rebuke its offer by watching low-grade American talk shows, while it shimmers, and fills the streets with sunshine. A Homoslothpian like myself is reluctant to activate its "do something productive" receptors on even the most blessed of days; so how do you expect it to be active on a gloomy poop-infused day such as this?
Would you like me to don rainbow suspenders, and skip at a rapid pace towards the lake, picnic basket in hand? Shall I go for a bike ride, and wave gleefully at other bike riders? No. These activities, when done in the rain, cause people to assume you are mentally unfit, and I do not wish to stumble upon any chums of mine, on any rain-heavy skipping adventures. The rumours will spread fervently: "Did you see him, skipping in the rain? What a Ass-rash! What a Gizzard! He's lost his tits!"
Shall I be ostracised from my friend circle, due to your lousy water dumping? You would like that wouldn't you rain, you communist. When you spit, you spit on everyone, regardless of events planned. You pitiful attention seeking bastard. You have ruined my sandcastle, you have waterlogged my sandwich.
Take me to a basement.
MBW
I am a lazy human. A lazy human, who even on nature's very best of days still struggles to accomplish even the most maligned tasks.
A delicious 25 degree summer day, offering itself to me - in all of it glory - will still be ashamed to know that I rebuke its offer by watching low-grade American talk shows, while it shimmers, and fills the streets with sunshine. A Homoslothpian like myself is reluctant to activate its "do something productive" receptors on even the most blessed of days; so how do you expect it to be active on a gloomy poop-infused day such as this?
Would you like me to don rainbow suspenders, and skip at a rapid pace towards the lake, picnic basket in hand? Shall I go for a bike ride, and wave gleefully at other bike riders? No. These activities, when done in the rain, cause people to assume you are mentally unfit, and I do not wish to stumble upon any chums of mine, on any rain-heavy skipping adventures. The rumours will spread fervently: "Did you see him, skipping in the rain? What a Ass-rash! What a Gizzard! He's lost his tits!"
Shall I be ostracised from my friend circle, due to your lousy water dumping? You would like that wouldn't you rain, you communist. When you spit, you spit on everyone, regardless of events planned. You pitiful attention seeking bastard. You have ruined my sandcastle, you have waterlogged my sandwich.
Take me to a basement.
MBW
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