Hip Hippy to the Hippity Hip Hop

Hello all,


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

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

Got so much ice you can skate on a brotha

When you see cash money you know we stay flossin

Catch cha girl down bad ya know we straight tossin

I aint seen a click yet that can stunt like mine

I aint seen a marette that can run like mine

Pourin vodka til I die drank til I faint

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Till next time, G's.

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Peanut Butter

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

Sex.

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Canada

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

Goodnight,
Mr. Bacon Wagon

Crabottom

Gooday all,
I have slept through the night. I have awoken and consumed eggs, and as such now possess the required energy to blog.
For this blog, as mentioned previously I will be delving into the tale of Professor Crabottom, the man from my small town who attempted to marry a sandwich.
Back in the late 1970's, My Father befriended Professor at the local community college named Crabottom. He was a gangly man, who wore a novelty sized top hat at all times, and spoke ill of the French. Freakishly tall, and strange he was nonetheless laded for his expertise in Classical Food History, and possessed a Ph. D in Francophone Slander. On many occasions My Father would invite Crabottom over to our home, to engage in deep discussions, while dressed in women's clothing. Frequently, for a lark, My Father and Crabottom would hurl gherkins at me, and instruct me to don a mask, and dance in a "fancyfree" manor. This generally did not trouble me, as I enjoy the smell of a good mask, and was also quite skilled with the akimbo.
These encounters were frequent and their discussions would go one for hours, usually until the entire bathroom was flooded, and they were both soaked in brandy. My Father would speak glowingly of Crabottom and one one occasion I do indeed recall the following, "I would undoubtedly assume that you had it coming, and in turn I would assist Crabottom in cleaning and removing your body, should he bludgeon you to death, my son." Laughing somewhat uncomfortably I donned the mask, in an attempt to mentally remove myself from the situation. I found it somewhat funny however that the above comment came mere days before My Father and Crabottom had their unforeseen falling out.
It all began one winters morning, when Professor Crabottom came to the house unannounced. I remember this specifically, because I had my hands down my pants, when he burst through the door, and I felt rather awkward. Ignoring my position, Crabottom, carrying a small box screamed for My Father in a shrill voice that bordered on nonsensical. "Mr. Bacon Wagon! Mr. Bacon Wagon!" He shouted, "Come at once, I am overwhelmed with joy, I have found my true love!" As My Father came down the stairs, groin still covered in shaving cream, he casually sat down on the sofa (couch), and queried Crabottom as to why he would barge into his home - especially as they had discussed that today was to be My Father "Winter Sheening"
Apologizing briefly, Crabottom explained his presence, simply by opening the small box, and removing a tasty looking sandwich. "Look, isn't she perfect!", he explained. My Father, agreed, and held out his hand for a bite.
Crabottom, slapped his hand away with such violence that his Top Hat was strewn from his head, and My Father's groin leap off the chair, spattering foam about my midsection. "You Cod!!", Crabottom continued, "You, Sir, were about to consume My future Wife, you stink-bat. She may look like a perfectly sliced Ham sandwich, garnered with fine Hot Mustard, Romain Lettuce, and, Old Cheddar to you, but to me, she is heaven. I made her last eve, and simply could not consume her. She is my angel, her name is Lovetessa, and tomorrow we wed."
Taken aback, My Father rose from his chair (foam soaking the floor, and running down his legs), and calmly asked Crabottom to leave. My Father was simply not willing to accept that he not share his sandwich, and questioned the ability to engage in sexual intercourse with it. Crabottom was hit hard my this news; by his friends denial of his one true love. He began to cry, and daintily packed up Lovetessa into her small box, and reverse walked out of our home. Filled with disgust, and confusion, My Father went back upstairs to finish his sheen.
The last, fate full news I heard; Crabottom had returned home from a 4 day conference on Why The French Are No Good, in a neighbouring town, and discovered that Lovetessa had been eaten my a pack of no good Chipmunks. Full of grief, and guilt, he hung himself with a link of sausages.

What a tale. What a tale indeed.
Until next time, good people,

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Burgers and Cottages

Hello all,
I have returned unharmed from a weekend of attacking alcohol and hashish. This is indeed miraculous, as there were several occurrences throughout the weekend, in which Alcohol was in complete control, and my brain was rendered useless. Alas, I did not suffer any sort of permanent/ violent injury, which is a plus.
Based on my recent experience, I have come away with a few thoughts that I wish to share with you all....As i reflected on my weekend, I realized that, Summer is indeed that most dangerous of seasons for me. I must provide a basis for this assessment:
First off; Fall is based around wearing track-pants at all times. The weather is best suited to this, especially when one forgoes undergarments. Also, many sports are to be watched at this time; and couches (sofas), seem to maintain an excellent temperature. All of these things are conducive to sitting, and doing nothing physical. In turn the odd "boredom drink" or sports-related alcohol encounter will occur. However for myself these things most often happen in my own home, since I can put both hands down my pants there. My own home also provides me the advantage of a simple drunken roll to bed, in which I may stub a toe, or trip on a loaf of stale bread - nothing life threatening.
Winter is very much the same thing, but underwear is now donned, and generally speaking, the drinking becomes heavier. Simply put; more snow = more libations. However, I am cold, and cabin fever is setting in. Luckily for me, I have cached a large assortment of boozes to quell my murderous rage. I will be drunk, and lazy, and it will be cold outside. This is good. I will not venture out - it is much too cold to commit assault(s). I am not primed for much movement within nature. I will not be climbing ice, and shooting down mountains on skis. I am too large of a mammal for the nonsense. Much like a bear, I will stay inside and wait out the thaw with comforting alcohol, and much cheese. To sum: little chance of danger.
Spring is the flirt. "Oh hello Ian, I am an underage summer that you cannot have. On certain days however, I will walk by your house, and blow warm air into your soul. This will make you long for my of-age seasonal friend - summer. I will then turn on you like a banshee, and pelt you with rain, especially if you have planned a picnic, since I, Spring get much satisfaction when I see you crying as you eat triangular cut egg salad sandwiches, alone in the rain." I curse you, Spring. You teasing bastard. The only real good thing is that it seems, few injury's occur for me in Spring.
It is now summer: All bets are off. I am outside, and I am drinking - heavily. This poses a myriad of problems, namely that many of life's dangers occur outside, and are increased massively whilst on whiskey. This is where my weekend Up North creeps into this blog entry. Yes, good people, I was outside. I was drinking, and my chances of death/maiming were severely increased. Please allow me explain:
With alcohol being the driving force behind every single action and reaction, I will now analyse some of the aspects of (potential) danger that accompanied me this weekend
Power tools: Normally in my daily life, I do not have access to power tools. Especially whilst drunk. Up North however, I do. My friend balances his beer on a tree stump. I do the same. He starts the chainsaw, and gives it to me. I proceed to cut things for no good reason. I realize that I am barefoot... I continue. Oh, alcohol, you are leading my blindfolded down a path to doublefootamputeedom. I must stop this at once!!
Fire: I used to watch Real TV. I have seen Michael Bay movies. I am therefore well versed in the destructive power of fire. This knowledge however is thrown to the wayside, and immediately forgotten, especially when the answer to any question is "burn it" and most query's involve some things like "where is fuck is the gas" This is all due to Rum.

[Sidenote: I have suddenly become tired]

Stairs: I am unable to navigate the large stairs, while drunk. I also firmly believe that I am an expert at navigating the large stairs, while drunk. I fell twice. Beer is to blame.
Water: I swim like a bicyle, that is to say; not well. I am also near water frequently, this is bad, especially when you factor in...
Boats: My friend has a boat. It is small, and possesses an extremely large engine and no life jackets. I have been warned: "Don't take 'er full bore, or else we'll fuckin' flip, and die!" This is horrible news. I slow down, and take a long hard drink of whiskey in order to fully assess the deadly situation.
Food: While sober I do not consume "raw" food. On Alcohol however, this weekend, I ate much too much "Pink" Avian. As a result, this morning I produced a horrid excretion, that left me in tears.

I must go. I must seek a bed, for I am tired. I will try not to ramble nearly as much in the future, as I have been informed that my long-winded writing style can be harmful, for those with things to do.
I do not ever have anything to do, so I do apologize for my babbling.
Also, in tomorrow entry, I will get to Prof. Crabottom, as promised.

Goodnight all,
Mr. Bacon Wagon

Sandwich Love

Hello all. Life seems to be fairly good right now. I am enjoying the hot weather, even though my back-sweat has increased to such an am out that Grey T-shirts simply cannot be worn in public. I am not one to complain however, as I am a fan of the hot, as opposed to the cold. Exposing ones genitalia in the winter is often not a good idea, whereas in the summer, the unit is soft and loose like honey in a ziplock bag, making it perfect for wrangling, and shaking. I love summer-penis.

I am not exactly sure why I mentioned that last bit of information, as it is not really prudent to today's topic of blogcussion. Today's blog rather is all about sandwiches (with a brief introduction about "summer-penis"). Moreover, I want to discuss sandwiches in terms of functionality, and also in terms of sexual attraction, which are two areas that immediately come to mind when I think of sandwiches, and sandwich related matters.

First off, functionality; in my opinion no food is better suited for today's multi-onthego-superfaceted-facepaced-ubersociety.

For example; you are talking on your wireless blackberry, while playing table tennis, and the hunger bug strikes you like a deranged panther. Fear not, for you have a perfectly constructed food grenade to throw at your stomach. Place one hand on your weapon, feel alive as the mix of cheese, bread, formally-alive animals (neatly sliced), and various other, slides down your esophagus. Booyaka, sir, you just signed a deal for 78 billion dollars, won serve, and gave your hunger "what for", thanks directly to the sandwich.

It is also your friend when dancing. Try doing the salsa, or a dynamic booty-dance while eating a plate of pasta. Nice try you stupid asshole, you now have marinara sauce on your short-shorts, women are laughing at you, and you will soon shed tears. Do not lament, fool; get a sandwich and drop your rear end to the floor, like it is hot. You have a free hand for fist pumping, or giving/receiving "dap", which will no doubt occur, since you are dominating the dance floor, and your sandwich is dominating your hunger.

Once, in 1997, I was directly responsible for a man's face peeling off his skull. I did not know this man, nor did I know his wife, who came up to me with violent intentions after "the incident". I told her, "Look Ruth (she looked like a Ruth at the time, although I did not know her name), your husband is clearly a piece of stupid. What kind of used-Q-tip of a man, decides to indulge in a piping hot soup, while riding the bumper-cars? Yes I rammed his car head on, projecting the soup violently upon his innocent face, shattering his life in the process. But I did it with one hand...Casually. You see my face, Ruth? (I pointed to my face), You see this Sandwich? (I pointed to the sandwich) This is the type of food you are supposed to eat on a novelty ride. My face is as sexy, and satisfied as ever, because I had the foresight to put animals and cheese between to velvety pieces of Wonder. You husbands face is melted, because he is an amateur. Tomato soup is best suited for the paddle boats (I pointed to the paddle boats). Keep crying Ruth, but it will not bring your husbands face back.... If you would like Ruth, while your husband spends the next 18 months in the burn ward, I will periodically come to your house, and allow you to construct me a sandwich of meats, while a rub my erect penis on your drapes, and verbally berate you. That is my best offer."

I could not determine whether or not Ruth had accepted my offer, for she was sobbing like a sob-monster. So I wrote my phone number on the wax-paper that I used to wrap my sandwich in (to maximize freshness). She has yet to call.

Fellows and Fem-fellows, I must apologize. I do not have time at the moment to tell of my magical story of Professor Crabottom, the man from my small town, who in 1981 married a sandwich, much to the chagrin of the locals. This story is one of lore, and fancyfreeness, and I will no doubt tell you all about it, quite soon!

However, I must now escape North for the weekend. Yes, Wagons North! The North is where I will smoke much Hashish, and (hopefully) give a Black Bear a sensual hand-job! I am excited as ever for this opportunity, however I am saddened by the fact the I will not be able to get to my fair readers for a few days.

Regardless, I want everyone to enjoy their wee-kends, and ensure to check back on Sunday, for a sexy update regarding sandwich nuptials, and the like!!!

Cheers to all,

Mr. Bacon Wagon

Scent

Hello All,

Welcome to today's blog entry.

This morning I was thumbing through my neighbours Star Magazine, in hopes of catching a glimpse of some delicious celebrity gossip/breasts, when I stumbled upon an rather intriguing advertisement.

Did you know, fair readers that Tim McGraw has entered himself into the glamorous world of celebrity inspired scents? Yes indeed.

For, what I am sure is a quite reasonable price, Mr. McGraw will sell you his Essenes. I hope that you are all as excited as I am with the opportunity to smell like a County Singer with the clout and international acclaim of Mr. McGraw. It gives me full-erection, knowing that when I leave my house wearing him, I will no doubt be swooning only the finest drunken cougars. I can see them fighting and jockeying for position to get closer to the front of the stage while I belt out John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" on Karaoke, 18 Jack and Cokes deep. Perhaps I will let them all fondle me, casting rational thought to the wayside; "To heck with it ladies, do not fight. Tim would not want that. Let me take you all home, as I have many ice cold Blue Ribbons. Let us frolic in Tim's essence, worry not about you Garments, as we will sort out the Acid Washed jeans in the morning time".

Ah, sweet life. Thank You, Tim for creating this fine product. I know you created it, not to whore out your own fame, so you can buy only the finest of ATVs, but for the the little people like myself. Those who dream of waking up surrounded my single mothers, and makeup stained sheets.

I am well aware of the earth shattering ramifications of this product, and I am (as early stated) sexually aroused by its arrival. However I for one know that this is not the only celebrity inspired scent, (albeit far and away the most dominant), nor shall it be the last. It is quite clear that fame (even in small doses) makes people want to smell you. Therefore I have decided to throw my dice on the table, and predict what I feel are the most likely upcoming candidates for a Celebrity Scent of their very own:

1) The Spice is Right: Now that he has retired from his Game Show hosting gig, Mr. Bob Barker has made the logical step into scenting. This remarkable scent is derived from severed Dog Penises, fermented in lavender, and Plinko Chips. It is finished with a dash of "Shame Sweat", which is extracted from the bodies of sleeping Barker's Beauties, only minutes after being penetrated by Mr. Barker himself!! $29.95, for 50ml bottle, available at Pet-Stores nation wide.

2) Lyle Lovett's, Trickery: For the man who has nothing, but wants everything. To wear Trickery, you must enjoy an massively inflated sense of confidence, and entitlement. Mr. Lovett knows a thing or two about both of these issues, however even he knows that these elements are not enough to land gorgeous women, when your face resembles a melted record. That is where the secret of Trickery comes into play, this cologne does not bore scent, rather it is bottled Rohypnol, disguised in a fancy Cologne like container. With a few sprays, women will become so "intoxicated" by your scent that they will not be the slightest bit concerned as to your physical appearance. Ideal for the ugly, untrustworthy, scum-like male, it is available at pharmacy's nationwide. bottle sold separately.

3) Captivity by Josef Fritzl: Meant to intimidate, this powerful scent will leave people feeling trapped by your presence. Best worn in the dark of night, an alluring grasp will take hold of those who come into contact with Captivity's unrelenting scent. Designed to resemble a lock and key, this Cologne smells of dank basements, and is sure to be a crowd pleaser with female transients, schizophrenics, and the generally insane. Be sure to apply a few dashes before partying under any freeway, or confined space. Available in Austria only, special orders accepted, according to Mr. Fritzl, price subject nightly position of Moon, and "Xzanga".

4) Screech Lightning: We all know lovable TV geek Screech, portrayed by none other than Dustin Diamond. Well, years removed from enjoying super Saved by the Bell success, Mr. Diamond has created a dynamic scent specifically designed for post-sex application. This lotion is made of world class Belgian chocolate, and mud rooted from the rain forests of Indonesia. The lotion can be applied to the entire face, however it works best when spread evenly across the upper lip. Naturally made; $ 69.99 for 125ml bottle.

5) Grimace. Purple. Sex.: Previously, little was know about Grimace, other than the fact that he rolled tight with Ronald, and was kinda cool with the Hamburglar. An innocent, silent burger eating machine, from the outside it appeared that "G. Sexy" (as he is now known) only had one true passion; The Burger. Clearly one should not judge a book by its cover, as Grimace (G. Sexy) has formally plunged into the world of scent. Mixing "Pure Purple" with two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, and sesame seed bun, Grimace (G. Sexy) was able to create a scent so intoxicating that several of the first people to wear Grimace. Purple. Sex. were tragically crushed to death by a mob of confused/angry obese people. Coming soon to Wal-Mart's World Wide.

There you have it fair readers, five sure fire predictions!

I hope you have enjoyed today's blog.

Have an excellent day,

Mr. Bacon Wagon