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

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

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

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.

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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

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

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

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