Dear Diary,
It’s been a while, but I need to get pen to paper. I need this off my chest...How can I resist myself? I’m a 55 year old, married man. My wife, (together 30 years) and I have raised three beautiful children, all have become successful adults. Life has been a Silver Platter, it has been charmed...But still I ask; how can I resist myself?
I hear my thoughts saying to me constantly “Goddamn it Jim, get a hold of yourself”, but I can’t, I just can’t get her out of my mind. It’s getting really bad now, I think about her at work; she’s in my dreams and I am even finding myself less attracted to my wife! Just last night, she was practically begging me for sex, and I wanted nothing to do with it – that’s the first time that has ever happened! Usually, Beth gets me going like a rocket to Mars, but last night, I was cold, I was distracted.
She was in my head again...The way she walks...Her legs – I melt. I just melt.
I first noticed her a few weeks ago. It was 7am, and I was reading the morning paper, before work. She walked by my house, so casually, yet so interested in her surroundings, I could tell she was new to the area. So fit, and trim, clearly, health and fitness were a priority. I knew she was well taken care of... I had half a mind to go out there and introduce myself, but I just felt that it would have been awkward - my true intentions would have been too obvious. I would have been seen through, like a thin sheet in the sun, I mean, I was practically drooling in my coffee. But still, nothing had ever turned my crank like that before, and all it took was a glace, a first walk by. That was it. I was hooked.
It has now become a bit of a tradition in my life, a ritual. I get out of bed every morning like a kid on Christmas; it’s time for a glance! Oh my God, it’s time! I feel so pathetic, but I cannot resist.
A few days ago, 7am came, and just like clockwork there she was. Winter is setting in, and for the first time I saw her wearing a coat, and boots - I was instantly hard. She looked so Goddamned hot, but also cute. It’s like a cute bomb, collided with a sexy rocket, and landed directly on her legs. I was fucking entranced; in fact, in one of my more embarrassing moments, my wife came down from the shower, and caught me with my hand down my pants. Luckily, She was entirely too shocked to say anything, and we both pretended that nothing had happened...Poor Beth, so innocent to the nature of my addiction, yet so worried. She knows something is amiss, but it seems like she is too afraid to ask me what it is...God this is hard for me. My wife truly is a special women, however my hear t is no longer hers, and it is killing me, killing her. I see it in her eyes, I see it in mine.
Today, as I write this, I feel as though my addiction is coming to a head. It’s getting worse. I called in sick to work, a few hours ago...Why? Well, Beth is out of town, on business, and I have an insatiable urge to act on my...My God...On my...Illness...I feel like crying, but at the same time, I’ve never felt so exhilarated.
You should have seen the look on the cashiers face when I rented all those movies. I think he knew something was up. And, the women at the calendar stand? Who buys 15 calendars? But I couldn’t help myself; they were all so provocative in their own way. So many choices...
So here I sit, calendars scattered on the floor, open to meaningless months, high gloss pictures looking up at me...Beethoven, on the DVD, Turner and Hooch on deck, and Lassie, the icing on the cake.
It’s 6:45am; soon she’ll be walking by my window, gracing my life with her presence yet again. All four legs bouncing rhythmically to the beat of my heart...
It’s going be a long day.
It’s going be a long life.
Jim
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Hello M'lady
Hello M’lady,
We met, (well, I stared at you), on the Subway a few days ago. You were sexually attractive, although, it seems like you might need some advice, so I am here to help. Please allow me to refresh your memory:
The other day, I was taking my usual ride to work, southbound on the Fuck-Tube (Subway). I happened to be extremely hung-over, from a raucous night of Scotch Drinking, and Pot Smoking. I was not the least bit happy to be scuffing along - in suit and tie - preparing for another day of "work" (which encompasses me avoiding actual work, by taking 25 minute dumps - frequently).
My spirits were lifted however, when I spotted you. You were seated, with your Mac Laptop open, headphones on, looking rather engaged. Your face was quite stunning, and in my hung-over state, I began to fantasize that you were watching hardcore gangbang pornography, on said Mac. And, in turn, that you would be getting up from your seat very soon, to approach me, and cordially invite me to gape you in the bathroom at Bloor Station.
As I pictured myself flicking my spare change into your stretched-out asshole (my boner, hard as Thor's Hammer), you began to fumble about in your purse for something. I assumed that it was going to be some lube (as Bloor Station was rapidly approaching), and I continued to watch you, with pressing interest.
To my surprise (disgust), you pulled out a circa 1992 yellow Sony walkman. Yes, I am talking about you, you stupid idiot. It seems as though, side one of your Jesus Jones’s Doubt had ended, and you just could not wait for side two! I had assumed that your headphones were hooked up to a device such as an IPod, or perhaps directly to your Laptop, since both of those devices have the capacity to play literately thousands of songs with ease - with no need to stop, and change sides.
Just so you are aware:
Most people do not purchase a Laptop, just so they can balance their typewriter on it.
Most people do not purchase a Car, just so they can have it towed by horses.
Most people are aware that the current year is 2009.
----------------------
Now, I was forced to draw one of two conclusions from this societal folly:
1) You are a Luddite, the computer is stolen, and you have no idea what it does. You were simply so entranced by “Right here, right now”, that you were giving off the impression that you were actually engaged in some sort of techno jibba-jabba, while in actuality the screen was as blank as your feeble mind.
2) You are an ironic whore, who loves cock in the mouth and ass.
If you are 1) write me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
If you are 2) Email me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
Cheerio,
We met, (well, I stared at you), on the Subway a few days ago. You were sexually attractive, although, it seems like you might need some advice, so I am here to help. Please allow me to refresh your memory:
The other day, I was taking my usual ride to work, southbound on the Fuck-Tube (Subway). I happened to be extremely hung-over, from a raucous night of Scotch Drinking, and Pot Smoking. I was not the least bit happy to be scuffing along - in suit and tie - preparing for another day of "work" (which encompasses me avoiding actual work, by taking 25 minute dumps - frequently).
My spirits were lifted however, when I spotted you. You were seated, with your Mac Laptop open, headphones on, looking rather engaged. Your face was quite stunning, and in my hung-over state, I began to fantasize that you were watching hardcore gangbang pornography, on said Mac. And, in turn, that you would be getting up from your seat very soon, to approach me, and cordially invite me to gape you in the bathroom at Bloor Station.
As I pictured myself flicking my spare change into your stretched-out asshole (my boner, hard as Thor's Hammer), you began to fumble about in your purse for something. I assumed that it was going to be some lube (as Bloor Station was rapidly approaching), and I continued to watch you, with pressing interest.
To my surprise (disgust), you pulled out a circa 1992 yellow Sony walkman. Yes, I am talking about you, you stupid idiot. It seems as though, side one of your Jesus Jones’s Doubt had ended, and you just could not wait for side two! I had assumed that your headphones were hooked up to a device such as an IPod, or perhaps directly to your Laptop, since both of those devices have the capacity to play literately thousands of songs with ease - with no need to stop, and change sides.
Just so you are aware:
Most people do not purchase a Laptop, just so they can balance their typewriter on it.
Most people do not purchase a Car, just so they can have it towed by horses.
Most people are aware that the current year is 2009.
----------------------
Now, I was forced to draw one of two conclusions from this societal folly:
1) You are a Luddite, the computer is stolen, and you have no idea what it does. You were simply so entranced by “Right here, right now”, that you were giving off the impression that you were actually engaged in some sort of techno jibba-jabba, while in actuality the screen was as blank as your feeble mind.
2) You are an ironic whore, who loves cock in the mouth and ass.
If you are 1) write me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
If you are 2) Email me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
Cheerio,
Apoeminapoemspoem
Limerick and Haiku, were on their third date
Limerick; a strict young lad, Haiku; a bit of a waif
Still, they were star crossed, their fates entwined
After all, they were both organized lines
They strolled through the park, comma to comma
From a thick wooded area, they heard someone holler
As they approached the brush somewhat cautious
They heard a voice, “these 14 lines are making me nauseous”
They pushed back some brush, and to their surprise
A Sonnet was crying, a dazed look in his eyes
“I am sick of my rhyme scheme, sick of being a ‘little song’”
At once, Limerick and Haiku knew that something was wrong
They offered him advice, “Sonnet, you’re not alone”
“And, no one said it was easy, being a poem”
Together they sat, under a tree
Discussing their fates; patterns, lines, Kireji
Hours passed, and Sonnet began to relax
He saw how his lines were simply the facts
How he was used so wonderfully by Shakespeare
Indeed, Limerick and Haiku had made that quite clear
They said their goodbyes, and went separate ways
Limerick and Haiku, skipping, a trail they blazed
Again comma to comma, they were so entranced
Just then something stopped them right in their tracks
Coming towards them, a smile ear to ear
Was a Pun – with a joke, that promised a jeer
“Oh I can’t Stanza that Guy!” Haiku had cried
“I couldn’t agree more”, and they ran, stride for stride
Limerick; a strict young lad, Haiku; a bit of a waif
Still, they were star crossed, their fates entwined
After all, they were both organized lines
They strolled through the park, comma to comma
From a thick wooded area, they heard someone holler
As they approached the brush somewhat cautious
They heard a voice, “these 14 lines are making me nauseous”
They pushed back some brush, and to their surprise
A Sonnet was crying, a dazed look in his eyes
“I am sick of my rhyme scheme, sick of being a ‘little song’”
At once, Limerick and Haiku knew that something was wrong
They offered him advice, “Sonnet, you’re not alone”
“And, no one said it was easy, being a poem”
Together they sat, under a tree
Discussing their fates; patterns, lines, Kireji
Hours passed, and Sonnet began to relax
He saw how his lines were simply the facts
How he was used so wonderfully by Shakespeare
Indeed, Limerick and Haiku had made that quite clear
They said their goodbyes, and went separate ways
Limerick and Haiku, skipping, a trail they blazed
Again comma to comma, they were so entranced
Just then something stopped them right in their tracks
Coming towards them, a smile ear to ear
Was a Pun – with a joke, that promised a jeer
“Oh I can’t Stanza that Guy!” Haiku had cried
“I couldn’t agree more”, and they ran, stride for stride
Movie Genius
Disaster Movies: A Professional Overview
Characters:
• Rough and Tumble Hero - Perhaps with moustache, perhaps hung over
• Innocent Hero - Who is going to have a very bad day
• Saviour - Someone who helps Hero become violent, and not a sissy
• Villain - Usually Mother Nature (that trollop!), or Aliens (those trollops!)
• Families (Children, Wife) - Who are useless, and need to be saved
• Government Officials - “We need to build a missile and fire it at ‘ _____’”
• FBI Agents - “The Dang Government is gonna build a missile and fire it at ‘____’”
• Police Officers - We do not know much, but we like donuts, and we hate the FBI
• Masses of Humans – “O.K., on the count of 3, let’s all run around screaming! 1...2....”
• News/Media – “I don’t know why I volunteered to report in the midst of the world ending. I suppose I really should be running around screaming, like everyone else”
Locations
• Hospitals – Bad day for Surgery
• Military Bases – Bound to be destroyed in some way or another
• Forrest, or Country – “It was nice out here, until the sodomizing aliens came”
• City, or Urban Sprawl – “It sure is hectic in this hustle-bustle city...Hey, is that a Giant Wave?”
• “The Pentagon” – Dimly lit. Old official barking at Young Radar guy. They both dislike Godzilla.
• Outer Space – “Now is not the time to determine if farts smell worse in space, Jim! Aliens are afoot!”
• The Ocean, or body of water – “Well I’ll be damned! That IS a Giant Squid, riding a surfboard, loading an AK-47!”
• Abandoned something or other – Terrible time to investigate the “Old Farm”, as it is currently the main base for the sodomizing aliens.
Objects/Things
• Guns! Guns! Guns! - Even lasers, and missiles, and whatever else can inflict pain on aliens or stop a tidal wave (although I do not know how a missile would stop a wave)
• Getaway cars – Get to the car, so you can retreat from the rapidly moving lava. Hurry the FUCK up Granny!
• Planes – The world is about to end. Better make it to that giant plane, which is headed for Mars. Will my iPhone work on Mars? Of course it will; Steve Jobs is a Dictator from hell.
• Some sort of wacky “key” or “code” – This, of course, is all that is needed to save the world.
• Radios – You have just got to radio you baby; tell her you love her, before you body is turned into vapour.
Mood
• Tends to be action packed music, with a hero shooting aliens in the face, or pulling a baby from a squids grasp.
Plots and Events
• A wonderfully sunny day, (perhaps with some numerical significance: 7/7/07!!!) perfect for having recreational outdoor park-sex with your friends and family. That is, until a laser toting Godzilla enters into a wrestling match with a giant Moth, in your back yard. Pull up your pants are run for your lives, dorks!
• Johnny-Common-Military has been slacking at this shoot-shoot practice. He is a rebel folks, He is a badass, who does not play by the rules! He definitely does not listen to his superior officer(who is a dork). However, when the Aliens come to town, it is time for him to kiss his wife on the face, and go punch a menacing creature in the dick! Huzzah!
Disaster Movies
• Independence Day
• 2012
• The Day After Tomorrow
• Twister
• Dante’s Peak
• Encino Man
Characters:
• Rough and Tumble Hero - Perhaps with moustache, perhaps hung over
• Innocent Hero - Who is going to have a very bad day
• Saviour - Someone who helps Hero become violent, and not a sissy
• Villain - Usually Mother Nature (that trollop!), or Aliens (those trollops!)
• Families (Children, Wife) - Who are useless, and need to be saved
• Government Officials - “We need to build a missile and fire it at ‘ _____’”
• FBI Agents - “The Dang Government is gonna build a missile and fire it at ‘____’”
• Police Officers - We do not know much, but we like donuts, and we hate the FBI
• Masses of Humans – “O.K., on the count of 3, let’s all run around screaming! 1...2....”
• News/Media – “I don’t know why I volunteered to report in the midst of the world ending. I suppose I really should be running around screaming, like everyone else”
Locations
• Hospitals – Bad day for Surgery
• Military Bases – Bound to be destroyed in some way or another
• Forrest, or Country – “It was nice out here, until the sodomizing aliens came”
• City, or Urban Sprawl – “It sure is hectic in this hustle-bustle city...Hey, is that a Giant Wave?”
• “The Pentagon” – Dimly lit. Old official barking at Young Radar guy. They both dislike Godzilla.
• Outer Space – “Now is not the time to determine if farts smell worse in space, Jim! Aliens are afoot!”
• The Ocean, or body of water – “Well I’ll be damned! That IS a Giant Squid, riding a surfboard, loading an AK-47!”
• Abandoned something or other – Terrible time to investigate the “Old Farm”, as it is currently the main base for the sodomizing aliens.
Objects/Things
• Guns! Guns! Guns! - Even lasers, and missiles, and whatever else can inflict pain on aliens or stop a tidal wave (although I do not know how a missile would stop a wave)
• Getaway cars – Get to the car, so you can retreat from the rapidly moving lava. Hurry the FUCK up Granny!
• Planes – The world is about to end. Better make it to that giant plane, which is headed for Mars. Will my iPhone work on Mars? Of course it will; Steve Jobs is a Dictator from hell.
• Some sort of wacky “key” or “code” – This, of course, is all that is needed to save the world.
• Radios – You have just got to radio you baby; tell her you love her, before you body is turned into vapour.
Mood
• Tends to be action packed music, with a hero shooting aliens in the face, or pulling a baby from a squids grasp.
Plots and Events
• A wonderfully sunny day, (perhaps with some numerical significance: 7/7/07!!!) perfect for having recreational outdoor park-sex with your friends and family. That is, until a laser toting Godzilla enters into a wrestling match with a giant Moth, in your back yard. Pull up your pants are run for your lives, dorks!
• Johnny-Common-Military has been slacking at this shoot-shoot practice. He is a rebel folks, He is a badass, who does not play by the rules! He definitely does not listen to his superior officer(who is a dork). However, when the Aliens come to town, it is time for him to kiss his wife on the face, and go punch a menacing creature in the dick! Huzzah!
Disaster Movies
• Independence Day
• 2012
• The Day After Tomorrow
• Twister
• Dante’s Peak
• Encino Man
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Chocolate Chicken
"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
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
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
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Hoki Poki
*Disclaimer: Yes, I frequently muse about Fast Food - I am simply unable to stray from this topic, as it has had such a profound impact on my life, socially, and emotionally.
---------------------------------
I have been known to say "Ah yes, the Fillet o' Fish; good choice. She is a darkhorse of the McDonald's lineup, and represents a tasty aquatic option, on their otherwise mammal-tastic menu of depression"
Alas, I could not have been more wrong. "Darkhorse", in my worldview implies that not many a'people are aware of said "Darkhorse", and that it is indeed a good choice, or option regardless of its limited appeal.
The Fillet of Fish is clearly not a "Darkhorse", it is in fact, an ocean depleting murder factory, placed on a heavily buttered babybutt-soft bun.
Peruse this electronic document: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/10/science/10fish.html
You see, The Fillet of Fish is in fact a marvel, a legend. It has just gone largely uncredited -until now...
Can I be more satisfied! On a Micro level, The Fillet will leave its victims feeling depressed, and full of shame, staring at their unappealing bodies, wondering why they just ate a fish sandwich alone, in a taxi, at 4am. They will try to make conversation with the taxi driver to alleviate their shame, however he will shun them, as he is not a man who converses with people who eat Fish Sandwiches at 4am.
However, even more impressive, is that on a Macro level, the Fillet of Fish is a damning hell spire up the anus of every environmentalist on earth! The Poor Hoki, tasty and innocent on the ocean floor, is violently shaken from its docile world, off the coast of Australia. It is then ripped into bits (most of which are casually discarded) and formed into a "sandwich", which is then consumed by confused/mindless drunken humans worldwide!
Oh Capitalism, you are giving me an erection!
Wiping out an entire fish species, not for any other reason than to sell woefully processed, and dreadfully unhealthy fish, to an already woefully depressed, and unhealthy public.
Sorry Hoki, but The Fillet of Fish makes me wish I could high-five Satan!
MBW
Friday, September 18, 2009
Levels of Hell
Heaven? Hell? I do not know. No one knows. Who is to say what happens when we pass on? Do we go to heaven, and eat buttered English muffins, on a cloud made of happy? Or is it straight to hell, where we shovel hot bugs into the assholes of people worse than us?
Who knows - and better yet, who cares? Although if we are to assume the "bible" is "correct", and not some crazy fairytale, well then, I am off to Hell (especially since I just masturbated five minutes ago).
...I have been mulling this over recently: I am going to Hell.
Well alright then, I succumb to my fate, to hell with it.
However I have been troubled by the talk of levels. I am interested in these levels. Where did you come up with this jibba-jabba, Mr. Dante? Have you been to Hell, Mr. Dante? Do you know Satan? And if so, is He any good at table tennis?
Well these are all interesting questions, that clearly cannot be answered...Back to the level nonsense (the crux of my worries)...
The levels (perhaps) work thusly; the deeper one descends into Hell, the more objects are inserted into one's body (there is a direct co-relation). A zip lock bag full of hot mustard in the dick-hole, a hot toaster into the anus, and the like...
My word, that certainly sounds ghastly. Not something that I would like to be a part of, no matter how drunk I was, or how much food I was being offered.
However, going on the theory that no two people are alike, it stands to reason that some Hell bound freak would quite fancy a hot device in the rectum.
Therefore, my thinking is that The Levels of Hell, should differ between individuals; no two people shouold have the same levels of Hell. Sick anal fetish man's levels of Hell would not include any anal funtimes. He wants the funtimes, but this is Hell, and he sure as heck isn't going to get what he wants in Hell.
Indiana Jones? Lots of snakes, and not a whip to be found.
The Crocodile Hunter? A shallow pool full of Stingrays, while a man killing rare snakes reads him the definition of "Irony" over and over again.
Hitler? Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows everywhere.
Etc...
My own personal levels of Hell are still up for internal debate. I know that the words "no" and "alcohol" will be prominent throughout, and perhaps, so will "small" "public" "washrooms".
I will indeed rehash this topic in the near future, once I have been able to assess my own misgivings, and create a reasonable outline of my own personal Hell.
Until that point, I will continue to live my meaningless life of petty sins.
MBW
Who knows - and better yet, who cares? Although if we are to assume the "bible" is "correct", and not some crazy fairytale, well then, I am off to Hell (especially since I just masturbated five minutes ago).
...I have been mulling this over recently: I am going to Hell.
Well alright then, I succumb to my fate, to hell with it.
However I have been troubled by the talk of levels. I am interested in these levels. Where did you come up with this jibba-jabba, Mr. Dante? Have you been to Hell, Mr. Dante? Do you know Satan? And if so, is He any good at table tennis?
Well these are all interesting questions, that clearly cannot be answered...Back to the level nonsense (the crux of my worries)...
The levels (perhaps) work thusly; the deeper one descends into Hell, the more objects are inserted into one's body (there is a direct co-relation). A zip lock bag full of hot mustard in the dick-hole, a hot toaster into the anus, and the like...
My word, that certainly sounds ghastly. Not something that I would like to be a part of, no matter how drunk I was, or how much food I was being offered.
However, going on the theory that no two people are alike, it stands to reason that some Hell bound freak would quite fancy a hot device in the rectum.
Therefore, my thinking is that The Levels of Hell, should differ between individuals; no two people shouold have the same levels of Hell. Sick anal fetish man's levels of Hell would not include any anal funtimes. He wants the funtimes, but this is Hell, and he sure as heck isn't going to get what he wants in Hell.
Indiana Jones? Lots of snakes, and not a whip to be found.
The Crocodile Hunter? A shallow pool full of Stingrays, while a man killing rare snakes reads him the definition of "Irony" over and over again.
Hitler? Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows everywhere.
Etc...
My own personal levels of Hell are still up for internal debate. I know that the words "no" and "alcohol" will be prominent throughout, and perhaps, so will "small" "public" "washrooms".
I will indeed rehash this topic in the near future, once I have been able to assess my own misgivings, and create a reasonable outline of my own personal Hell.
Until that point, I will continue to live my meaningless life of petty sins.
MBW
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Buffalo Bills
"The tragedy of life is not that man loses, but that he almost wins"
- Heywood C. Broun
Mr. Broun, you have hit the needle on the head, sir. The needle being the collective soul of all Buffalo Bills fans. Mr. Broun, your quote rings so true, that I am assuming merely reading it, would give any beleaguered Bills enthusiast violent heartburn. (Perhaps the heartburn is derived from the woeful diet of sodium-laced cured meets, and numerous bloat-inducing ales, nonetheless, the burn still presides itself within the heart of the Bill supporter)
Oh Fortuna, how you wreck havoc on the people of Buffalo. Yes, they are blessed with world class wings, at a decent price, however the residents of Buffalo also have, crime, poverty, genital-scarringly cold winters, and the unfortunate distinction of being unofficially known as the "Armpit of America". On top of that heaping mess of misfortune, the once prominent city of Buffalo is home to a team that seems to corrode and break to pieces, in a markedly similar manor to it's once booming steel industry; now drearily known as the "Rust Belt".
Please let them hold a lead. Please let them win a game against a division rival - Oh how they must rue the New Englanders. I would not be surprised if many a Bills fan would gladly pour scalding hot Clam Chowder into the eyes of a Patriots fan; and in many ways it would be justified.
I must say that I am not a diehard fan, however, my worldview causes me to naturally root for the fly to break free of the spiders web, for the gazelle to flee from the lions claws, and for the Bills to actually win a game without depositing hot shit into their beds.
Please Fortuna, bless these Bills. Winter is coming, and a man can only consume so many "pity wings".
MBW
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Food, fastly.
Convenience is often times my downfall. I am hungry, and I am not in my house (perhaps, it would not matter if I was indeed at home, for the food that I possess is shameful at best; a mouldy block of cheese, two cans of bargain-priced tuna, and coffee), and therefore I must satisfy my hunger via vendor.
Now, I am not a fastfood coward. I do not particularly care how these animals are murdered and ground up. Are we to assume that (succulent)Cows, (tasty)Chickens and (lip-smacking) Pigs, would be much happier about their own murders if it were done in a "humane" manor. Can I sleep easier in the evening, knowing that Wilbur is slowly being put to sleep, and then mauled apart by rapidly moving steel? No. Who cares? Ninnies, that's who. But I am not a ninnie, I am a hungry man, who is away from his homestead.
So I eat Arby's. Now, I do not know you Mr. Arby, however I would love to sit down and have a chat with you. I would demand that you give me the name of your meat supplier. I need to know how you can procure enough "high-quality" "roast beef" to feed millions of people daily, for under 4 dollars. Whats that you say? The meat is actually 40% discarded military boots? Ah, well that explains why my heart feels itchy, I am currently depressed for no reason, and in 40 minutes I will excrete Beelzebub himself, from my rectum.
Let me wash my depression down, with some "Bacon" "Cheddar" Curly Fries, and sugar water. Now, I must remand myself to my bedroom for hours, as I have suffered injury, due to your food. I am beginning to think that it would have been less detrimental to my well being, to have consumed various "foods" from a dumpster, behind a homeless shelter.
I am ill, and I am unable to escape the reality, that is the complete, and total lack of fire, or grill in your establishment. How are you preparing my roast, since fire is not present? Am I to resign myself to the fact that you are "cooking" "roast" "beef", with a machine that could charge my cellular phone?
My asshole has been penetrated by the spiked ceiling of hell.
MBW
Now, I am not a fastfood coward. I do not particularly care how these animals are murdered and ground up. Are we to assume that (succulent)Cows, (tasty)Chickens and (lip-smacking) Pigs, would be much happier about their own murders if it were done in a "humane" manor. Can I sleep easier in the evening, knowing that Wilbur is slowly being put to sleep, and then mauled apart by rapidly moving steel? No. Who cares? Ninnies, that's who. But I am not a ninnie, I am a hungry man, who is away from his homestead.
So I eat Arby's. Now, I do not know you Mr. Arby, however I would love to sit down and have a chat with you. I would demand that you give me the name of your meat supplier. I need to know how you can procure enough "high-quality" "roast beef" to feed millions of people daily, for under 4 dollars. Whats that you say? The meat is actually 40% discarded military boots? Ah, well that explains why my heart feels itchy, I am currently depressed for no reason, and in 40 minutes I will excrete Beelzebub himself, from my rectum.
Let me wash my depression down, with some "Bacon" "Cheddar" Curly Fries, and sugar water. Now, I must remand myself to my bedroom for hours, as I have suffered injury, due to your food. I am beginning to think that it would have been less detrimental to my well being, to have consumed various "foods" from a dumpster, behind a homeless shelter.
I am ill, and I am unable to escape the reality, that is the complete, and total lack of fire, or grill in your establishment. How are you preparing my roast, since fire is not present? Am I to resign myself to the fact that you are "cooking" "roast" "beef", with a machine that could charge my cellular phone?
My asshole has been penetrated by the spiked ceiling of hell.
MBW
Friday, September 4, 2009
Excuse Me, Loud Planes
Yes, hello there Jet. Good day, large, aggressively loud WW II fighterplane. If I may be so bold as to ask you to shut up.
I am not interested in aviation. For the most part, I am terrified of being in the air, speeding through clouds at 1000 miles per hour. I am sure that you feel happy to know that you are entertaining various people with your acrobatic maneuvers, and death defying fuckery. However, as mentioned, I am not a man of planes. I will watch Top Gun, only when extremely intoxicated, and I have never been able to procure a bomber jacket that sufficiently fits my girth.
It is for these reasons (and many more) that I was NOT in attendance at this years Air Plane Fun-Fun show. However this did not stop you from zooming by my place of residence, blaring your engines like a Nazi.
These sonic booms woke me. They shook me from my dream of Sexual Intercourse, and Freshly Baked Cookies (so you know; my erection was powerful, and happy). No, I was not engaging in Sexual Intercourse with said cookies - they were merely an after-shame treat, which I was getting ready to enjoy when The Red Baron (You), fucked my Vanwinkle.
You owe me a sexual dream, Jet Plane. I will shake my fist at you for at least 4 years due to this, and hopefully you will rue this day. Rue it proper.
MBW
I am not interested in aviation. For the most part, I am terrified of being in the air, speeding through clouds at 1000 miles per hour. I am sure that you feel happy to know that you are entertaining various people with your acrobatic maneuvers, and death defying fuckery. However, as mentioned, I am not a man of planes. I will watch Top Gun, only when extremely intoxicated, and I have never been able to procure a bomber jacket that sufficiently fits my girth.
It is for these reasons (and many more) that I was NOT in attendance at this years Air Plane Fun-Fun show. However this did not stop you from zooming by my place of residence, blaring your engines like a Nazi.
These sonic booms woke me. They shook me from my dream of Sexual Intercourse, and Freshly Baked Cookies (so you know; my erection was powerful, and happy). No, I was not engaging in Sexual Intercourse with said cookies - they were merely an after-shame treat, which I was getting ready to enjoy when The Red Baron (You), fucked my Vanwinkle.
You owe me a sexual dream, Jet Plane. I will shake my fist at you for at least 4 years due to this, and hopefully you will rue this day. Rue it proper.
MBW
Monday, August 31, 2009
Purple Rain
Music is important to some. Not important to others. That pretty much covers it. With that overtly generic statement being said, I am one of those individuals who falls into the "important" categorie. As my life has gone on, I have been introduced to varying forms of music, bands, styles, etc...Many of these introductions have been positive. I have loved blasting Biggie in a car whilst old white people look terrified, and confused. I will never shy from dancing to Mark Morrison's "Return of The Mack", like an asshole, or smashing various objects into oblivion with the help of amp-crushing, speaker melting Motorhead. And the like, and the like.
However, one song has always resonated with me passionately. A song that will stop me in my tracks every time; a song that would cause me to ignore a robbery, or casually step over a bleeding body.
Purple Rain. Yes. Purple Fucking Rain. Say what you will about Prince's insane antics, and his outrageous sexual perversions, that is simply Prince being Prince. I would like to argue that he is a musical savant; a genius, and as such, requires various outlets to soothe his vices. Yes, he may be a sodomist, but he is also a brilliant musician, who has created a song that I could listen to 100 times in a row, passionately and attentively. There has been many a time in my life, in which I have arisen, naked at 11am, turned on The Price Is Right, and replaced its manic drivel, with Purple Rain. I am not ashamed to state that on more than one occasion, I have dropped to my naked knees - on my living room floor, and performed an awe inspiring guitar solo. Yes, I am naked and fat, but my soul is transformed, and illuminated, through the sound of Prince's ample musical prowess.
Thank You, Prince
Regards,
MBW
However, one song has always resonated with me passionately. A song that will stop me in my tracks every time; a song that would cause me to ignore a robbery, or casually step over a bleeding body.
Purple Rain. Yes. Purple Fucking Rain. Say what you will about Prince's insane antics, and his outrageous sexual perversions, that is simply Prince being Prince. I would like to argue that he is a musical savant; a genius, and as such, requires various outlets to soothe his vices. Yes, he may be a sodomist, but he is also a brilliant musician, who has created a song that I could listen to 100 times in a row, passionately and attentively. There has been many a time in my life, in which I have arisen, naked at 11am, turned on The Price Is Right, and replaced its manic drivel, with Purple Rain. I am not ashamed to state that on more than one occasion, I have dropped to my naked knees - on my living room floor, and performed an awe inspiring guitar solo. Yes, I am naked and fat, but my soul is transformed, and illuminated, through the sound of Prince's ample musical prowess.
Thank You, Prince
Regards,
MBW
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Baby Im a Star
Ya, I might be 150 million Gyaddamm kilometers away from y'all, but Ill still burn your mafuckin' ass. Im the dude, that red's up yo' skin, and makes y'all throw up for hours when y'all forget to wear a hat on the beach.
I mean, shit, smarten up muthafuckers. Y'all thinking, "oh snap, that bitch ass sun can't fuck with me. It ain't that hot".
What? Y'all's is stupid. I'm 1.4 million muthafuckin' kilometers wide, 4.5 muthafuckin' billion years old, and 10 million mafuckin' degrees, of hot skin burnin' fuckyoshitupness. I WILL burn your muthafuckin' asses. I will melt your record collections, and kill yo dogs, and yo old peoples. Don't fuck wit me. Please do not fuck wit me....
Some dumb motherfucker, Ian was bitchin' how I ain't come around, fo June and most of July...Then when I do come out, this dumb ass get so giddy, he dun drank 40 beers on a dock, all afternoon singing my praises. Well, I don't take kindly to punks, dissin' me when I ain't around, so I burnt his mafuckin' shoulders to a crisp. Burnt them shits.
Shit, I may be up in space, straight chillin', but I still laughed when his friends, dun slapped his muthafuckin' burnt shoulders, and called him a "douche bag".
Bottom line is: let me do my thang. I'll be out, so don't bitch when I ain't around, or I'll come down on your punk asses, and burn your eyes out durin' an eclipse, or blind you on the highway, or straight give you cancer.
Cuz yo, I'm a mutherfuckin' Star.
I mean, shit, smarten up muthafuckers. Y'all thinking, "oh snap, that bitch ass sun can't fuck with me. It ain't that hot".
What? Y'all's is stupid. I'm 1.4 million muthafuckin' kilometers wide, 4.5 muthafuckin' billion years old, and 10 million mafuckin' degrees, of hot skin burnin' fuckyoshitupness. I WILL burn your muthafuckin' asses. I will melt your record collections, and kill yo dogs, and yo old peoples. Don't fuck wit me. Please do not fuck wit me....
Some dumb motherfucker, Ian was bitchin' how I ain't come around, fo June and most of July...Then when I do come out, this dumb ass get so giddy, he dun drank 40 beers on a dock, all afternoon singing my praises. Well, I don't take kindly to punks, dissin' me when I ain't around, so I burnt his mafuckin' shoulders to a crisp. Burnt them shits.
Shit, I may be up in space, straight chillin', but I still laughed when his friends, dun slapped his muthafuckin' burnt shoulders, and called him a "douche bag".
Bottom line is: let me do my thang. I'll be out, so don't bitch when I ain't around, or I'll come down on your punk asses, and burn your eyes out durin' an eclipse, or blind you on the highway, or straight give you cancer.
Cuz yo, I'm a mutherfuckin' Star.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I Would Die 4 U
You have just finished ordering your meal at your favorite seafood restaurant. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the butter-soaked animals, you casually sip from your Stella. Finally, you see the tray coming out from the kitchen. Your brain sends a signal to your mouth, and you begin to salivate uncontrollably. Your mind is well aware that within mere seconds you will be shoving Alaskan King Crab down your swollen gullet.
Greedily, you reach up towards the steaming mass, for a leg that is protruding tastily off the edge of the plate - the plate that is still in the waiters hands. He gives you a disgusted look that you fail to notice, as you are engulfed in the moment.
The red exterior is of no match to your clenching, bending and prodding, and within seconds the meat is cascading out of its protective shell into your fat mouth. A once majestic king of the ocean floor is now on its way to becoming churned up fecal matter, deposited into a poorly cleaned North American toilet. However, this is of no consquience to you since, well, King Crab is really fucking tasty.
Now, your overwhelming lust for the legs of the paralithode camtschaticus begs the question, "would you die for this, fat man?".
Chances are, regardless of your hunger-passion, you would not be willing to risk your life for crab meat. Chances are, your list of life risking endeavours begins with "family", and ends with "50 gagillion dollars"
Well, their are men who are willing to risk life an limb for this creature. Careful now, do not "freak out" crab-man, I am not referring to some smelly environmentalist, on a quest to protect these beasts. No. Quite the oppostite in fact. I am referring to alcoholic, drug addicted fishermen, who are on the fringes of society.
These brave souls risk their lives to trap the crab, and sell them world wide, so that you can shove the meat down into your gizzards.
One can speculate as to why they simply do not construct a machine to fish for these creatures as opposed to putting numerous lives in danger. Is this a classic case of bottom line profit margins versus human lives? Is this another Ford Fiesta like debacle of human dignity? Is the price of a fisherman's life really that low? Sweet fucking lord, I hope not.
Crab lover, you must realize that with every bite of that deliciously butter-soaked Crab meat, there is blood on your hands....But also realize, that you do not really give a shit.
MBW
Greedily, you reach up towards the steaming mass, for a leg that is protruding tastily off the edge of the plate - the plate that is still in the waiters hands. He gives you a disgusted look that you fail to notice, as you are engulfed in the moment.
The red exterior is of no match to your clenching, bending and prodding, and within seconds the meat is cascading out of its protective shell into your fat mouth. A once majestic king of the ocean floor is now on its way to becoming churned up fecal matter, deposited into a poorly cleaned North American toilet. However, this is of no consquience to you since, well, King Crab is really fucking tasty.
Now, your overwhelming lust for the legs of the paralithode camtschaticus begs the question, "would you die for this, fat man?".
Chances are, regardless of your hunger-passion, you would not be willing to risk your life for crab meat. Chances are, your list of life risking endeavours begins with "family", and ends with "50 gagillion dollars"
Well, their are men who are willing to risk life an limb for this creature. Careful now, do not "freak out" crab-man, I am not referring to some smelly environmentalist, on a quest to protect these beasts. No. Quite the oppostite in fact. I am referring to alcoholic, drug addicted fishermen, who are on the fringes of society.
These brave souls risk their lives to trap the crab, and sell them world wide, so that you can shove the meat down into your gizzards.
One can speculate as to why they simply do not construct a machine to fish for these creatures as opposed to putting numerous lives in danger. Is this a classic case of bottom line profit margins versus human lives? Is this another Ford Fiesta like debacle of human dignity? Is the price of a fisherman's life really that low? Sweet fucking lord, I hope not.
Crab lover, you must realize that with every bite of that deliciously butter-soaked Crab meat, there is blood on your hands....But also realize, that you do not really give a shit.
MBW
Sunday, August 16, 2009
When Doves Cry
What if things on Earth were switched up a bit? What if Squids could play the drums? What if Lions and humans switched brains?
Well, humans would certainly be in dire straights. We would all be drones, rounded up and harvested for food by our Lion overlords.
My goodness me, a Lion with a human brain is an excellent thought! What a slim chance at freedom the human race would have.
I am assuming that humans are tasty, and I am also assuming that a Lion equip with a human brain would deduce that fact rather quickly.
This is especially troubling for humans, as without our impressive sponges, we are one of the most pitiful and defenseless creatures of earth.
Where is our armour? Our methods of defence? Our cunning? It is no where, without our impressive head lumps.
Give that lump to Lions, and they would be skinning and frying the pathetic humans six ways from Sunday.
I personally can picture myself disemboweled and fried in a soft batter, apple in mouth. What a treat I would be at the Lion semi-formal charity event! The Lion Chef would be mobbed, and asked how he was able to cook the "bald-headed loser" in such a tasty manor - although being a professional he would not reveal his recipe.
There would be McHumans, and Double Mchumans w/ cheese - they would be cheap, but they would make the Lions (especially the lower class ones) obese.
It would be a great world to live in for the mindless drone humans...I certainly would not have a heavy cell phone bill to pay, or any crippling depression.
Perhaps when Doves cry,
MBW
Well, humans would certainly be in dire straights. We would all be drones, rounded up and harvested for food by our Lion overlords.
My goodness me, a Lion with a human brain is an excellent thought! What a slim chance at freedom the human race would have.
I am assuming that humans are tasty, and I am also assuming that a Lion equip with a human brain would deduce that fact rather quickly.
This is especially troubling for humans, as without our impressive sponges, we are one of the most pitiful and defenseless creatures of earth.
Where is our armour? Our methods of defence? Our cunning? It is no where, without our impressive head lumps.
Give that lump to Lions, and they would be skinning and frying the pathetic humans six ways from Sunday.
I personally can picture myself disemboweled and fried in a soft batter, apple in mouth. What a treat I would be at the Lion semi-formal charity event! The Lion Chef would be mobbed, and asked how he was able to cook the "bald-headed loser" in such a tasty manor - although being a professional he would not reveal his recipe.
There would be McHumans, and Double Mchumans w/ cheese - they would be cheap, but they would make the Lions (especially the lower class ones) obese.
It would be a great world to live in for the mindless drone humans...I certainly would not have a heavy cell phone bill to pay, or any crippling depression.
Perhaps when Doves cry,
MBW
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Darling Nikki
Writting in 4 mins 12 seconds.
James awoke; it was time.
Delivery of the deivce was 4 days. It had been and, well, they had been reliable in the past. At that moment, the door bell rang. "prompt", he mused.
The man at the door looked haggard, looked defeated. Perhaps that was fair, as he had been delivering for A.N.A.L for 16 years. How could that company not crush a mans soul. I mean, they were smut peddlers. Thats a long way away from law school. (Altought perhaps not, methaphociaxcllay spkeaing).
James thanked the delivery man, and slammed his door. His reection was massive. The choke suit was here.
100% robot, but realistic as hell. Custom made; spitting image of James's grade 6 teacher - He had provided a photo, and well, they did the rest.
James took her out of the box, "Darling Nikki". Stunning. Sexy. Mechanical.
Oh well, James thought. Im sick of the bar scene. Eharmony? Well thats just not my bag,
either.
James picked up the phone and ordered a pizza - he didnt bother to ask Nikki what she wanted. He ran the show.
He looked at his calander; Yup, he hasd the next 3 days booked off, and, well he was damed sure going to make the most of them.
He leaned in and kissed the machine.
"Darling Nikki", he said plainly
MBW
James awoke; it was time.
Delivery of the deivce was 4 days. It had been and, well, they had been reliable in the past. At that moment, the door bell rang. "prompt", he mused.
The man at the door looked haggard, looked defeated. Perhaps that was fair, as he had been delivering for A.N.A.L for 16 years. How could that company not crush a mans soul. I mean, they were smut peddlers. Thats a long way away from law school. (Altought perhaps not, methaphociaxcllay spkeaing).
James thanked the delivery man, and slammed his door. His reection was massive. The choke suit was here.
100% robot, but realistic as hell. Custom made; spitting image of James's grade 6 teacher - He had provided a photo, and well, they did the rest.
James took her out of the box, "Darling Nikki". Stunning. Sexy. Mechanical.
Oh well, James thought. Im sick of the bar scene. Eharmony? Well thats just not my bag,
either.
James picked up the phone and ordered a pizza - he didnt bother to ask Nikki what she wanted. He ran the show.
He looked at his calander; Yup, he hasd the next 3 days booked off, and, well he was damed sure going to make the most of them.
He leaned in and kissed the machine.
"Darling Nikki", he said plainly
MBW
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Computer Blue
Being an avid member of the Christian Community, Gary was disgusted of the perversions on the World Wide Web. Being a top MIT graduate, and brilliant computer scientist, he had decided to take action.
It was in early 2006 that this "action" began. The Internet's cavernous amounts of sin and filth, simply had to go.
Oh, He had heard the stories from his church going companions; filthy pornography, lewd and violent imagery, anti-religious diatribes! Surely this material was responsible for sullying the Earth, Gary thought.
He knew the fate of the world was now in his hands. It was simply time for him to act - if not for himself, then for the betterment of God's Children!
For three years He worked determinedly in his basement, creating a super computer of immense power - its name; Computer Blue. Computer Blue had but one function; when unleashed it would track down anything deemed to be filthy, tasteless, abhorrent, and offensive throughout the entire Internet. When finished its "Electronic Sin Extraction", (as Gary liked to call it), Computer Blue would simply delete, ridding the Internet of all its garbage in one fell swoop. (Ah yes, and once Computer Blue had started, it could not be stopped until the deed was done).
Finally, it was ready. The fruits of his labour were now in progress. Computer Blue had been up and running for several hours, and already it was proving remarkable effective. Pornography on the Internet was all but gone, and nearly 95% of the video's on YouTube were currently being whisked into Computer Blue's powerful sin-free black hole. Brimming with pride, and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Gary checked the filth-free Internet to view the world's reaction.
Much to his surprise, his ingenious idea for peace and a God loving World was crumbling in front of his computer screen. CNN.com reported stories of violent raids on pornography stores, by normal citizens on a desperate quest for porno.
Reuters was following the numerous cases of reported fights, and violent verbal attacks worldwide. It seems that the human race, unable to satisfy their lust for taboo in the privacy of their own homes, had taken to the streets.
Within days of Computer Blue's conception, murder, orgies, fire, and chaos were the norm in all corners of the earth. The once mighty Internet was now rendered useless. Without its abnormalities, and sinful content there was little interest in logging on to begin with, and all major sites crumbled. The World's economy was unable to recover, and total anarchy reigned. Gary was perplexed. "How could this be?", he wondered aloud to his cat Sparkles.
"Why Sparkles, why? I merely wanted to cure the earth of its sins, and now in an ironic twist of fate, a sinless Internet has caused the order of the entire world to implode into itself."
"I-I cannot go on, knowing what I have done."
With that, Gary donned his pink vinyl body suit, (with the extra dildo fashioned above the hole where his real penis hung out), put on his favorite air-restricting mask, inserted "My Ass is Haunted" into his DVD player, and hung himself.
Sparkles looked on in bemusement. Who was going to feed him now?
MBW
It was in early 2006 that this "action" began. The Internet's cavernous amounts of sin and filth, simply had to go.
Oh, He had heard the stories from his church going companions; filthy pornography, lewd and violent imagery, anti-religious diatribes! Surely this material was responsible for sullying the Earth, Gary thought.
He knew the fate of the world was now in his hands. It was simply time for him to act - if not for himself, then for the betterment of God's Children!
For three years He worked determinedly in his basement, creating a super computer of immense power - its name; Computer Blue. Computer Blue had but one function; when unleashed it would track down anything deemed to be filthy, tasteless, abhorrent, and offensive throughout the entire Internet. When finished its "Electronic Sin Extraction", (as Gary liked to call it), Computer Blue would simply delete, ridding the Internet of all its garbage in one fell swoop. (Ah yes, and once Computer Blue had started, it could not be stopped until the deed was done).
Finally, it was ready. The fruits of his labour were now in progress. Computer Blue had been up and running for several hours, and already it was proving remarkable effective. Pornography on the Internet was all but gone, and nearly 95% of the video's on YouTube were currently being whisked into Computer Blue's powerful sin-free black hole. Brimming with pride, and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Gary checked the filth-free Internet to view the world's reaction.
Much to his surprise, his ingenious idea for peace and a God loving World was crumbling in front of his computer screen. CNN.com reported stories of violent raids on pornography stores, by normal citizens on a desperate quest for porno.
Reuters was following the numerous cases of reported fights, and violent verbal attacks worldwide. It seems that the human race, unable to satisfy their lust for taboo in the privacy of their own homes, had taken to the streets.
Within days of Computer Blue's conception, murder, orgies, fire, and chaos were the norm in all corners of the earth. The once mighty Internet was now rendered useless. Without its abnormalities, and sinful content there was little interest in logging on to begin with, and all major sites crumbled. The World's economy was unable to recover, and total anarchy reigned. Gary was perplexed. "How could this be?", he wondered aloud to his cat Sparkles.
"Why Sparkles, why? I merely wanted to cure the earth of its sins, and now in an ironic twist of fate, a sinless Internet has caused the order of the entire world to implode into itself."
"I-I cannot go on, knowing what I have done."
With that, Gary donned his pink vinyl body suit, (with the extra dildo fashioned above the hole where his real penis hung out), put on his favorite air-restricting mask, inserted "My Ass is Haunted" into his DVD player, and hung himself.
Sparkles looked on in bemusement. Who was going to feed him now?
MBW
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Beautiful Ones
It was a hot sunlit afternoon at the San Diego Zoo. The weather brought the visitors in droves, and The Zoo was brimming with energy and wonder. In their spacious enclosure the Hippos went about their Hippo business. Some waded casually in their mud pond, while others lazily basked in the heat. They were all dreaming about apples - and also about 'not being fucked with'.
A large crowd was beginning to gather around their pen, however unlike other days, today the crowd was not here to soak in the magnificant glory of the Hippos. No. Today, the crowd gathered for a presentation; a charitable donation was being made to benefit The Zoo, and none other than the newly crowned Miss America was here to make it - evidently she was a real animal enthusiast.
The presentation was to take place on a small bridge, which ran over top of the Hippo's pond, and as it was set to start in minutes, the bridge was rather chaotic. It was overflowing with hairdressers, makeup artists, film crews, and the like. Leaning out against the wall of the bridge, Miss America and her manager, were speaking intently.
"Sky, don't worrry! Your beautiful, your confident, and you will nail this speech. Nothing too it babe!", her manager insisted.
"Like, um, totally thanks Rico, I like, um, really appreciate your, um, support", said Sky.
As this conversation continued, the interest of one particular Hippo was piqued. Floyd The Hippo, was fairly certain that these people were here to offer him apples. He was keen on accepting the offers. Floyd started to wade slowly over to the bridge, stopping directly below where Miss America and her manager were still talking.
Floyd then began to emit a large gurgling sound from the depths of his enormous Hippo stomach, as to inform the humans that he was ready to be showered with apples....He continued to produce this noise even after a few apple-less minutes.
Above, (and at long last) Rico was unable to tune out Floyd The Hippo's guttural cries, and interupted Sky.
"S-sky, can you hold it for a second, this Hippo is driving me fucking nuts."
"Rico!", she cried in defense of the Hippo, "He's like, just a poor little Hippo, looking for food, be niiiiyce to him"
"Nice eh? Hungry eh? Well alright then, here!", with that Rico dug into his pockets and aggressively threw the contents of them on the sexy Hippo waiting below - the contents of which happened to be a small, opened bottle of cologne.
The cologne struck Floyd on the nose. The liquid ran out of the bottle, and effortlessly flowed into his large sized nostrils.
This angered Floyd, and he prepared his rebuttal.
Before Rico and Sky (and the dozens of people on the bridge for that matter) knew what was what, Floyd The Hippo had begun to shake his tail, whilst excreting his feces, effectively spraying everything in sight with Hippo Shit.
This caused a panic, in which Rico twisted his body (to block the Hippo Shit from further entering his eye sockets) in such a way that he inadvertently knocked Miss America off the bridge and into the perils of the Hippo Pond.
She was then promptly bitten in half by Floyd the Hippo, who had still yet to receive any apples.
MBW
A large crowd was beginning to gather around their pen, however unlike other days, today the crowd was not here to soak in the magnificant glory of the Hippos. No. Today, the crowd gathered for a presentation; a charitable donation was being made to benefit The Zoo, and none other than the newly crowned Miss America was here to make it - evidently she was a real animal enthusiast.
The presentation was to take place on a small bridge, which ran over top of the Hippo's pond, and as it was set to start in minutes, the bridge was rather chaotic. It was overflowing with hairdressers, makeup artists, film crews, and the like. Leaning out against the wall of the bridge, Miss America and her manager, were speaking intently.
"Sky, don't worrry! Your beautiful, your confident, and you will nail this speech. Nothing too it babe!", her manager insisted.
"Like, um, totally thanks Rico, I like, um, really appreciate your, um, support", said Sky.
As this conversation continued, the interest of one particular Hippo was piqued. Floyd The Hippo, was fairly certain that these people were here to offer him apples. He was keen on accepting the offers. Floyd started to wade slowly over to the bridge, stopping directly below where Miss America and her manager were still talking.
Floyd then began to emit a large gurgling sound from the depths of his enormous Hippo stomach, as to inform the humans that he was ready to be showered with apples....He continued to produce this noise even after a few apple-less minutes.
Above, (and at long last) Rico was unable to tune out Floyd The Hippo's guttural cries, and interupted Sky.
"S-sky, can you hold it for a second, this Hippo is driving me fucking nuts."
"Rico!", she cried in defense of the Hippo, "He's like, just a poor little Hippo, looking for food, be niiiiyce to him"
"Nice eh? Hungry eh? Well alright then, here!", with that Rico dug into his pockets and aggressively threw the contents of them on the sexy Hippo waiting below - the contents of which happened to be a small, opened bottle of cologne.
The cologne struck Floyd on the nose. The liquid ran out of the bottle, and effortlessly flowed into his large sized nostrils.
This angered Floyd, and he prepared his rebuttal.
Before Rico and Sky (and the dozens of people on the bridge for that matter) knew what was what, Floyd The Hippo had begun to shake his tail, whilst excreting his feces, effectively spraying everything in sight with Hippo Shit.
This caused a panic, in which Rico twisted his body (to block the Hippo Shit from further entering his eye sockets) in such a way that he inadvertently knocked Miss America off the bridge and into the perils of the Hippo Pond.
She was then promptly bitten in half by Floyd the Hippo, who had still yet to receive any apples.
MBW
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Take Me With You
"Yes!!", James hung up the phone excitedly. It was 10pm on a Wednesday, and He had just been informed that he was the winner of an all expenses paid trip for him and a guest to Paris, France!
Pacing around his apartment giddily, he could not wait to tell his girlfriend. She would be so excited! He was thrilled with the possibilities that this trip would have for their relationship - perhaps this was a chance for James and Kate to take it to the "next level", he thought.
Unfortunately, His girlfriend was currently out of town on business, set to return tomorrow...
He simply could not wait that long to break the news to "someone" at the very least. But who?
...He thought to himself, "Why not facebook? This seems like a perfect little status update. Rub it in to all of my e-friends! Ha ha, yes, Ill do it...", with that James went to his laptop and began typing;
James Balls Has just won an all expenses paid trip to Paris! Leaving in a week, bitches!!!!!! Wooowowowowowoow!!!!!
Satisfied with his post, he logged off.
With that he drifted to sleep, a broad smile set on his face like blissful mortar. Hours later he awoke to the sound of the phone ringing on his bedside table. He gazed wearily at his alarm clock; 7am. "Oh Kate, your gonna love what I have to tell ya", he said, suddenly awake. He picked up the phone, and let out a cheerful, "Hey baby! Great News!"
"Hahah, fuck off dude! I'm not your baby, you asshole!
"Wha-what the? Who the fuck is this?!", James demanded
"What kind of a response it that, dick breath? Who is this? Fuck man, its Bobby! Your best friend Bobby. The Guy you see at least 3 times a week, Bobby! The same guy you did those unmentionable things in Vegas with, Bobby."
"Ugh, Bobby, what the fuck man? Its Seven am, why are you calling me? Fuck off!"
"Dude. Heard about your little trip there on facebook, bro."
"Ya. So."
"Dude. You've got to take me with you, I hear the bitches are sluts in Paris. Papapapapapow!!!"
"Bobby, are you fucked? Does your brain have cancer? I'm not taking you to Paris! I'm going with Kate, in fact that's who I figured was calling me, fuckhead."
"Phhh. Kate? Ya right - kill your trip, fuck your trip in the ass. You don't need to worry about taking Kate...Look I know your really want to party on this thing, and I figured that you would be forced to take her, so I took care of the situation..."
"What the fuck do you mean, 'took care', Bobby?"
"What I mean is that, I worked out a plan last night when I heard about this on FB. You know how she was comin' in from Pearson this morning?
"Yes, I was aware of that, Bobby"
"Well this morning, I got up early, met her at the airport, sayin' something like, 'Hi Kate, James asked me to pick you up since he didn't want you to take a cab'. She was all like 'Oh Bobby, your such a good guy'. I was all like 'ya', then I drugged her, and locked her in my basement! yeayeayeayeah!!!"
"WHAT!!? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY, BOBBY!!?"
"Chill out, homo. I drugged her, and locked her in my basement not a big deal at all. Now we can go to Paris together, and you get off scott free!
"DUDE! You cannot be serious, You are in a whole FUCKLOAD of TROUBLE, BOBBY! What the FUCK is wrong with you!!?"
"Wow man, you are a punk, a straight punk. I go out of my way to make sure that your trip is filled with banging sluts, and getting wasted, instead of stupid loser couple stuffs, and you take a shit on my efforts. Oh, I'm so sorry, James! I had no idea that you wanted to skip around in a park with stupid Kate all day, instead of getting wasted, and jockin' bitches with your bro. You are a changed man, man."
"Bobby, you'd better hope I never see you again, cuz I will break your skull, you fucking piece of shit!!! Oh, and furthermore, your fucked - I'm about to call the cops."
- Click -
Immediately after hanging up on Bobby, James called the police. They retrieved Kate, unharmed from Bobby's basement. She was chained to the furnace, surrounded by a case of Joe Louis's, and 7 tins of Mountain Dew - it is thought that this would have kept her alive for at least 2 days.
The Police arrested Bobby at a nearby high school, where he was smoking marijuana with teenagers. He is expected to face counts of Kidnapping and Forceable Confinement, to which he faces a maximum of 16 years in a federal penitentiary.
The day before his trip, James dumped Kate cold, and went with his other buddy Frank, who knew a couple of freaky bitches with a place in downtown Paris. Apparently Frank had assured James that "It was on like Donkey Kong."
Pacing around his apartment giddily, he could not wait to tell his girlfriend. She would be so excited! He was thrilled with the possibilities that this trip would have for their relationship - perhaps this was a chance for James and Kate to take it to the "next level", he thought.
Unfortunately, His girlfriend was currently out of town on business, set to return tomorrow...
He simply could not wait that long to break the news to "someone" at the very least. But who?
...He thought to himself, "Why not facebook? This seems like a perfect little status update. Rub it in to all of my e-friends! Ha ha, yes, Ill do it...", with that James went to his laptop and began typing;
James Balls Has just won an all expenses paid trip to Paris! Leaving in a week, bitches!!!!!! Wooowowowowowoow!!!!!
Satisfied with his post, he logged off.
With that he drifted to sleep, a broad smile set on his face like blissful mortar. Hours later he awoke to the sound of the phone ringing on his bedside table. He gazed wearily at his alarm clock; 7am. "Oh Kate, your gonna love what I have to tell ya", he said, suddenly awake. He picked up the phone, and let out a cheerful, "Hey baby! Great News!"
"Hahah, fuck off dude! I'm not your baby, you asshole!
"Wha-what the? Who the fuck is this?!", James demanded
"What kind of a response it that, dick breath? Who is this? Fuck man, its Bobby! Your best friend Bobby. The Guy you see at least 3 times a week, Bobby! The same guy you did those unmentionable things in Vegas with, Bobby."
"Ugh, Bobby, what the fuck man? Its Seven am, why are you calling me? Fuck off!"
"Dude. Heard about your little trip there on facebook, bro."
"Ya. So."
"Dude. You've got to take me with you, I hear the bitches are sluts in Paris. Papapapapapow!!!"
"Bobby, are you fucked? Does your brain have cancer? I'm not taking you to Paris! I'm going with Kate, in fact that's who I figured was calling me, fuckhead."
"Phhh. Kate? Ya right - kill your trip, fuck your trip in the ass. You don't need to worry about taking Kate...Look I know your really want to party on this thing, and I figured that you would be forced to take her, so I took care of the situation..."
"What the fuck do you mean, 'took care', Bobby?"
"What I mean is that, I worked out a plan last night when I heard about this on FB. You know how she was comin' in from Pearson this morning?
"Yes, I was aware of that, Bobby"
"Well this morning, I got up early, met her at the airport, sayin' something like, 'Hi Kate, James asked me to pick you up since he didn't want you to take a cab'. She was all like 'Oh Bobby, your such a good guy'. I was all like 'ya', then I drugged her, and locked her in my basement! yeayeayeayeah!!!"
"WHAT!!? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY, BOBBY!!?"
"Chill out, homo. I drugged her, and locked her in my basement not a big deal at all. Now we can go to Paris together, and you get off scott free!
"DUDE! You cannot be serious, You are in a whole FUCKLOAD of TROUBLE, BOBBY! What the FUCK is wrong with you!!?"
"Wow man, you are a punk, a straight punk. I go out of my way to make sure that your trip is filled with banging sluts, and getting wasted, instead of stupid loser couple stuffs, and you take a shit on my efforts. Oh, I'm so sorry, James! I had no idea that you wanted to skip around in a park with stupid Kate all day, instead of getting wasted, and jockin' bitches with your bro. You are a changed man, man."
"Bobby, you'd better hope I never see you again, cuz I will break your skull, you fucking piece of shit!!! Oh, and furthermore, your fucked - I'm about to call the cops."
- Click -
Immediately after hanging up on Bobby, James called the police. They retrieved Kate, unharmed from Bobby's basement. She was chained to the furnace, surrounded by a case of Joe Louis's, and 7 tins of Mountain Dew - it is thought that this would have kept her alive for at least 2 days.
The Police arrested Bobby at a nearby high school, where he was smoking marijuana with teenagers. He is expected to face counts of Kidnapping and Forceable Confinement, to which he faces a maximum of 16 years in a federal penitentiary.
The day before his trip, James dumped Kate cold, and went with his other buddy Frank, who knew a couple of freaky bitches with a place in downtown Paris. Apparently Frank had assured James that "It was on like Donkey Kong."
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Lets Go Crazy
It started innocently enough. Samuel had awoken on his couch to discover that the remote control in charge of the TV had morphed into a medium sized Red Snapper. "This is strange. Why is this fish in charge of the operation of my television?", he uttered. Just then, the fish chimed in, and put Samuel in his place, "Do not question my abilities. You may think this is strange, but let me assure you; it is not a'tall. Oh, and further more I demand that you leave the house at once and search for hot sauce"
Samuel was nervous, but his did not wish to upset the fish. He decided it best to get outside, and at least pretend to search for hot sauce. He went to the landing and put on his loafers, which now resembled two hot dogs. He resisted the urge of eating his shoes, noting that he'd best warm up hot dogs first, by walking around town.
He opened the door of his ground floor apartment, and the summer sun hit him like a hot yam. "Motherfucking Fish!", he screamed. Clearly, this was not a day to be outside, but the fish was now calling the shots - there was nothing he could do.
The pavement was so hot, that it began to melt under his feet, causing him to take methodical lunge-like steps. This seemed to attract unwanted attention from many people, as he was unable to avoid bumping into them. These people shot him menacing looks, and began hurling insults his way, which sounded like crickets chirping in the night. This angered Samuel, and he defended his position, "THE FISH NEEDS HOT SAUCE! AUGGGGHHHHHH! This seemed to work - the cricket people had now scurried away.
The sky had now turned blood red. Luckily he recalled that he was in possession of pills given to him by his doctor (who lived in one of the alleys down the street from his apartment). "Mmmmuugghhhh", he said under his breath...
Looking to and fro, he unfurled the saran wrap, and consumed the pills.
"Raaaauuuugggghhh!", cried Samuel. Clenching his fists, he kicked over a garbage can, and screamed "Grace's Red! GRACE'S RED JALAPENO!"
He was on the ground now. Stuck to the floor, on a giant rat trap. "The Fish warned me of this", he said solemnly. He squirmed uselessly about the ground, flapping his feet, like the very fish who had put him in this tricky spot...
Unable to move, "The People" were now all staring at him. They were 8 feet tall, with arms of metal spaghetti. They began converging on him, telling him not to trust the snapper - to come with them to a better place.
He awoke in a room made of marshmallows, hands wrapped in a moth's cocoon. He had failed The Fish. He trembled...
MBW
Samuel was nervous, but his did not wish to upset the fish. He decided it best to get outside, and at least pretend to search for hot sauce. He went to the landing and put on his loafers, which now resembled two hot dogs. He resisted the urge of eating his shoes, noting that he'd best warm up hot dogs first, by walking around town.
He opened the door of his ground floor apartment, and the summer sun hit him like a hot yam. "Motherfucking Fish!", he screamed. Clearly, this was not a day to be outside, but the fish was now calling the shots - there was nothing he could do.
The pavement was so hot, that it began to melt under his feet, causing him to take methodical lunge-like steps. This seemed to attract unwanted attention from many people, as he was unable to avoid bumping into them. These people shot him menacing looks, and began hurling insults his way, which sounded like crickets chirping in the night. This angered Samuel, and he defended his position, "THE FISH NEEDS HOT SAUCE! AUGGGGHHHHHH! This seemed to work - the cricket people had now scurried away.
The sky had now turned blood red. Luckily he recalled that he was in possession of pills given to him by his doctor (who lived in one of the alleys down the street from his apartment). "Mmmmuugghhhh", he said under his breath...
Looking to and fro, he unfurled the saran wrap, and consumed the pills.
"Raaaauuuugggghhh!", cried Samuel. Clenching his fists, he kicked over a garbage can, and screamed "Grace's Red! GRACE'S RED JALAPENO!"
He was on the ground now. Stuck to the floor, on a giant rat trap. "The Fish warned me of this", he said solemnly. He squirmed uselessly about the ground, flapping his feet, like the very fish who had put him in this tricky spot...
Unable to move, "The People" were now all staring at him. They were 8 feet tall, with arms of metal spaghetti. They began converging on him, telling him not to trust the snapper - to come with them to a better place.
He awoke in a room made of marshmallows, hands wrapped in a moth's cocoon. He had failed The Fish. He trembled...
MBW
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
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
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
Monday, July 27, 2009
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
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
Friday, July 24, 2009
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
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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
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
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
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
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
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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.
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
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
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
Monday, July 13, 2009
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
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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.
Friday, July 10, 2009
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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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.
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