Last night the dream of a Stanley Cup being won by the Edmonton Oilers in 2006 came to an end.
For those of you out there who read my blog and are from the Edmonton area you are more than likely familiar with how the playoff run affected the city. Sure, there were riots and beer shortages and arrests and fights and just general mayhem, but while all this was going on, there was a sort of comradeship that bloomed here. It's really hard to describe. On one hand there was an almost tangible electrity in the air and just about everywhere you went you could just see how excited everybody was, especially these past couple of days.
More than anything else that is what is sad about the Edmonton Oilers cinderella Stanley Cup story coming to an end. Now the little microcosm of Edmonton devolves back into its normal state, people generally alienated from everybody else, loneliness, directionless. It's not that we are a people who are desperate, it's just that we will likely return our respective focuses to the other tasks and interests that consume our time. The playoff run was more of a thread that sewed all of us together, a sort of flag for us to collectively rally around.
And now that flag has been removed.
Even if the Oilers had won the cup the magic would have only been prolonged for a while longer. All magic like that is fleeting.
There is also some sadness I feel for the Oilers. Our city's boys put up a hell of a fight. For those of you not in the know on what was transpiring with the NHL, the Edmonton Oilers were the bottom-seeded team in the Western Conference going into the playoffs, meaning that they were underdogs insofar as the standings were concerned and, as such, we never had a series where we had home ice advantage. However, our team played like contenders throughout. They made believers of not only our city, but the whole hockey world. So yeah, I can be sad for our boys because they got so close. A one goal loss in the seventh game in the Stanley Cup Final is as close as it gets. But because nobody expected them to even get out of the first round, let alone get all the way to the finals, I am proud of what they were able to accomplish. So sadness, yes, but hope and optimism for the future always. Our team will be back. They will kick more ass. They have no reason to be down for too long.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Civil Service: The Sexiest Line Of Work Around
Click here.
Okay, today I have a strange one for you. Somewhere over in England there is an office in Newcastle, the Rural Payments Agency office to be precise, and it is the sexiest office in the world.
To borrow a few words from the linked article here's what's been happening in this sexy little government building:
"The agency said it was investigating claims that staff leapt naked from filing cabinets, had sex in office toilets, held break-dancing competitions during working hours and fought in a reception area."
My first reaction after reading this was Sign me up. I'll move to England, just get me a job in that office because that's where I want to be.
But then I thought about it some more and now I'm not wanting to move to England so much and it has little to do with the British Dental Association's care for its country's citizens or the fact that they speak English over there and yet there are numerous Brits whom I can't understand in the slightest. No, it's none of that.
What is keeping me here in Canada is the fact that this sexy little office is being investigated, most likely to curb any further shenanigans.
And that's what pisses me off about this whole matter.
You want to curb this kind of behavior from your government employees? What the fuck is wrong with you?
I mean seriously. Have you ever had to go to a government office for anything? I'm sure that there are many of you out there who have. What did you think about the experience? It was pretty fucking dull, wasn't it? You go and you sit and then some jerk in a cheap suit and reeking of B.O. takes you to his office where he sips criminally bad coffee and pores over a computer to review whatever file they have on you and it takes forever. Almost literally.
Now, if you had to, say, go to some office where all the workers were parading around naked, having breakdancing competitions, fistfights, and fucking like sex-crazed teenagers, would you find that dull? Do you have a fucking pulse?
I don't know about you, but I only wish the civil servants around here were that cool. Some buxom receptionist just typing away topless and I could gaze longingly at her heaving breasts. Meanwhile, some lowly mailroom clerk is breakdancing and these two other clerks are duking it out Muhammad Ali style. And naked diving off of filing cabinets? Brother, you ain't seen naked dives off of filing cabinets until you've seen these plucky Brits doing it.
That's civil service, fuckers!
If you ask me, they should be investigating that office to see how other offices should be run to make them just as exciting.
Not only that, but if I were the British government I would look into marketing that shit properly. I'd put out a line of DVDs and call it "Civil Servants Gone Wild." How fucking cool would that be? Just 2 hours of naked clerks and office shlubs filling out paperwork and breakdancing.
So, governments of the free world, take note of this sexy little office in Newcastle. If you want to lure people to join the civil service or even if you want to improve the dreary experience of having to go to a government office make like the civil servants in Newcastle and bust a move, bitches.
Incidentally, where I work people have sex in the toilets all the time. We even have this one employee we call Betty Blumpkin, affectionately, I might add. Our breakdancing isn't quite as good, but we do manage to spin and twirl fast enough that our wangs make that slapping sound good and loud. Sounds pretty cool.
That's because I'm not in the civil service.
Okay, today I have a strange one for you. Somewhere over in England there is an office in Newcastle, the Rural Payments Agency office to be precise, and it is the sexiest office in the world.
To borrow a few words from the linked article here's what's been happening in this sexy little government building:
"The agency said it was investigating claims that staff leapt naked from filing cabinets, had sex in office toilets, held break-dancing competitions during working hours and fought in a reception area."
My first reaction after reading this was Sign me up. I'll move to England, just get me a job in that office because that's where I want to be.
But then I thought about it some more and now I'm not wanting to move to England so much and it has little to do with the British Dental Association's care for its country's citizens or the fact that they speak English over there and yet there are numerous Brits whom I can't understand in the slightest. No, it's none of that.
What is keeping me here in Canada is the fact that this sexy little office is being investigated, most likely to curb any further shenanigans.
And that's what pisses me off about this whole matter.
You want to curb this kind of behavior from your government employees? What the fuck is wrong with you?
I mean seriously. Have you ever had to go to a government office for anything? I'm sure that there are many of you out there who have. What did you think about the experience? It was pretty fucking dull, wasn't it? You go and you sit and then some jerk in a cheap suit and reeking of B.O. takes you to his office where he sips criminally bad coffee and pores over a computer to review whatever file they have on you and it takes forever. Almost literally.
Now, if you had to, say, go to some office where all the workers were parading around naked, having breakdancing competitions, fistfights, and fucking like sex-crazed teenagers, would you find that dull? Do you have a fucking pulse?
I don't know about you, but I only wish the civil servants around here were that cool. Some buxom receptionist just typing away topless and I could gaze longingly at her heaving breasts. Meanwhile, some lowly mailroom clerk is breakdancing and these two other clerks are duking it out Muhammad Ali style. And naked diving off of filing cabinets? Brother, you ain't seen naked dives off of filing cabinets until you've seen these plucky Brits doing it.
That's civil service, fuckers!
If you ask me, they should be investigating that office to see how other offices should be run to make them just as exciting.
Not only that, but if I were the British government I would look into marketing that shit properly. I'd put out a line of DVDs and call it "Civil Servants Gone Wild." How fucking cool would that be? Just 2 hours of naked clerks and office shlubs filling out paperwork and breakdancing.
So, governments of the free world, take note of this sexy little office in Newcastle. If you want to lure people to join the civil service or even if you want to improve the dreary experience of having to go to a government office make like the civil servants in Newcastle and bust a move, bitches.
Incidentally, where I work people have sex in the toilets all the time. We even have this one employee we call Betty Blumpkin, affectionately, I might add. Our breakdancing isn't quite as good, but we do manage to spin and twirl fast enough that our wangs make that slapping sound good and loud. Sounds pretty cool.
That's because I'm not in the civil service.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The Hottest Fashion Accessory For Your Ass Is Now Available
Click here.
Renova Black.
That's right, Renova Black.
What's Renova Black, you're wondering?
Well, idiot, Renova Black is quite simply "This season's must-have" according to the New York Times toilet paper critic. But what the fuck is it, you're still wondering.
It's black fucking toilet paper.
That's right, black fucking toilet paper.
All you chump sucka fools using three-ply white are all chump sucka fools because black is where it's at when it comes to toilet paper. This is a technological breakthrough. Finally, the tyranny of white toilet paper has come to an end, ending hundreds of years of apartheid in bathrooms across the world. Finally, the technology that allows us to have black toilet paper has been perfected.
Okay, first of all, why the fuck is this even considered groundbreaking? For years and years we've been able to put all kinds of shit on toilet paper, pun intended. We've had the faces of presidents we desise, names of countries we hate, and even Michael Jackson. Hell, I've even had a roll of toilet paper with pages of Mad Magazine printed on each square. You mean to tell me that with all of this great toilet paper being created we haven't once stopped to think, Hey, wait a second, why not black toilet paper?
But here's what really bothers me. The New York Times. Seriously, how fucking slow does a news day have to be before the New York Times exclaims, "This season's must-have" about black toilet paper. It's fucking toilet paper, morons, wipe your fucking ass with it and call it a day. It doesn't matter if it's white, black, purple, blue, or green, just wad up a fistful of it and start wiping before the diarrhea hardens.
Iraq?
Naw. Too ho-hum.
Our lunatic president?
Naw. Too predictable.
Brangelina?
Naw. It's been done.
Hey wait, I know. Let's get all over that black toilet paper craze that's sweeping the nation! Now that's newsworthy. Bump the impending nuclear armageddon to the lifestyle section and let's get that fucking black toilet paper page 1, front and center. Here's the fucking headline: Newspaper Editor Goes Batshit Crazy.
And, "This season's must-have"? What the fuck is that supposed to be? Does this all mean that next season there's going to be another hot toilet paper? Paper for your ass? Paper to wipe shit off your ass? Who the fuck goes to the toilet paper fashion shows? Who the fuck is a toilet paper designer by trade?
Renova Black.
That's right, Renova Black.
What's Renova Black, you're wondering?
Well, idiot, Renova Black is quite simply "This season's must-have" according to the New York Times toilet paper critic. But what the fuck is it, you're still wondering.
It's black fucking toilet paper.
That's right, black fucking toilet paper.
All you chump sucka fools using three-ply white are all chump sucka fools because black is where it's at when it comes to toilet paper. This is a technological breakthrough. Finally, the tyranny of white toilet paper has come to an end, ending hundreds of years of apartheid in bathrooms across the world. Finally, the technology that allows us to have black toilet paper has been perfected.
Okay, first of all, why the fuck is this even considered groundbreaking? For years and years we've been able to put all kinds of shit on toilet paper, pun intended. We've had the faces of presidents we desise, names of countries we hate, and even Michael Jackson. Hell, I've even had a roll of toilet paper with pages of Mad Magazine printed on each square. You mean to tell me that with all of this great toilet paper being created we haven't once stopped to think, Hey, wait a second, why not black toilet paper?
But here's what really bothers me. The New York Times. Seriously, how fucking slow does a news day have to be before the New York Times exclaims, "This season's must-have" about black toilet paper. It's fucking toilet paper, morons, wipe your fucking ass with it and call it a day. It doesn't matter if it's white, black, purple, blue, or green, just wad up a fistful of it and start wiping before the diarrhea hardens.
Iraq?
Naw. Too ho-hum.
Our lunatic president?
Naw. Too predictable.
Brangelina?
Naw. It's been done.
Hey wait, I know. Let's get all over that black toilet paper craze that's sweeping the nation! Now that's newsworthy. Bump the impending nuclear armageddon to the lifestyle section and let's get that fucking black toilet paper page 1, front and center. Here's the fucking headline: Newspaper Editor Goes Batshit Crazy.
And, "This season's must-have"? What the fuck is that supposed to be? Does this all mean that next season there's going to be another hot toilet paper? Paper for your ass? Paper to wipe shit off your ass? Who the fuck goes to the toilet paper fashion shows? Who the fuck is a toilet paper designer by trade?
Monday, June 05, 2006
Awwww Crap, I Spoke Too Soon
Click here.
This weekend it is predicted that there will be a nuclear attack, which makes the number of the beast 696 or possibly 6106 depending on how you carry the remainder and/or apply the exponents.
I propose a week of binge drinking and/or whooping it up on Whyte Avenue as long as we can keep the Canadian Armed Forces from nuking us.
This weekend it is predicted that there will be a nuclear attack, which makes the number of the beast 696 or possibly 6106 depending on how you carry the remainder and/or apply the exponents.
I propose a week of binge drinking and/or whooping it up on Whyte Avenue as long as we can keep the Canadian Armed Forces from nuking us.
The End Is Nigh
Some bookies are offering 10-1 odds that the world is going to end tomorrow.
Click here.
The above link goes to an article that offers some insight into the true meaning of the number of the beast, 666.
And the one thing that I can't figure out after reading the article is why there is such a fuss over the date. Yeah, okay, 6th day of the 6th month of the 6th year past 2000, 6/6/06, I get it. What I don't get is why didn't the world come to an end on June 6, 0006, or June 6, 1006, or any other combinations that come up with that same "mark of the beast."
Anyway, I just thought I would bring this to your attention.
See you on Wednesday. I'll be the one in the festive hat that reads "See You Again In 1000 Years." Tools.
Click here.
The above link goes to an article that offers some insight into the true meaning of the number of the beast, 666.
And the one thing that I can't figure out after reading the article is why there is such a fuss over the date. Yeah, okay, 6th day of the 6th month of the 6th year past 2000, 6/6/06, I get it. What I don't get is why didn't the world come to an end on June 6, 0006, or June 6, 1006, or any other combinations that come up with that same "mark of the beast."
Anyway, I just thought I would bring this to your attention.
See you on Wednesday. I'll be the one in the festive hat that reads "See You Again In 1000 Years." Tools.
And Now, Michael Appleby Answers Some More Hypothetical Questions
Once again, from the book of If.
Q: If you were suddenly naked in front of everyone at work, what would you say to them?
A: "Suddenly naked"? I hate to answer the question with another question, but I take it that by "suddenly naked" it means that I wasn't expecting to be naked in front of my coworkers as though it was some sort of freak accident that robbed me of my clothes or some ninja sliced my clothes off with a kitana or something. There's such a wide array of instances that would render me "suddenly naked" and I doubt that many, if any of them at all, would be so seemingly normal so as to let me say to my coworkers something banal and obvious like, "Yes, this is my penis. Now get back to work before I slap you with it." Hmmmm...this is a good question because now in my mind I'm going through more and more occurrences that would make me naked suddenly. I think that my best remark about being rendered naked by a twist of fate in front of all my coworkers would have to be something impeccably timed and funny so as to draw attention away from my penis that would undoubtedly be reacting in its own way to the shock sudden and unexpected exposure and the casino's air conditioning. Then I would probably pick up the nearest phone, calmly dial a lawyer and get the wheels turning on a law suit against the casino for having the fucking air conditioning turned up so high that it robbed me of my dignity. Air conditioning does that to penises.
Q: If you were to be any famous person's personal masseuse, whose would you like to be?
A: There are a lot of possibilities for this question. On one hand I could go with the obvious and start naming all of these starlets with sexy backs. On the other hand I could name a whole list of morbidly obese celebrities (okay, the three or four of them who actually exist anymore) just so that, as a masseuse, I could make a better living because with a bigger back comes more overtime, and with more overtime comes better pay cheques and a better quality of life. Decisions. Decisions. Well, most starlets wouldn't give me the time of day anyway. I'm not saying that because I'm trying to be Mr. Oh-Isn't-He-So-Adorably-Humble, but because, come on, I'm a freakin' masseuse and since when do you see starlets dating masseuses? That's like dating a maid or a butler. Sure, there might be a starlet or two who could be desperate enough to have sex with a masseuse just to make their male celebrity love interest jealous or for headline fodder, but how often, realistically, is that going to happen? Nope, I'm going to have to choose to be the masseuse of the fattest celebrity around. But who would that be? Louie Anderson? Those world's fattest twins who ride motorcycles guys? Somebody like that. It doesn't matter who. I'm a masseuse by trade, not for the socializing. Hello pay cheque!
Q: If you could have hit any homerun in baseball history, which one would you choose?
A: Barry Bonds' #715. If I could be Barry Bonds, having spent most of my professional career juicing up (allegedly, he says *snicker*), I would have done #715 with a bit more bitterness. I mean, since you're all ready despised by everybody and made a villain by the media, why not go into the insane level of villainy and rip up a picture of Babe Ruth right at home plate as you cross it? That would be so cool. Because if everybody is intent on putting an asterisk beside your name you should do something else to make them remember you for more than just your footnote.
Q: If you had to go tonight to be tattooed, where on your body would you have it done and what image would you select?
A: I'd want to get Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" tattooed on my back. Since it's a really long poem it would have to be done in really small lettering. Does that count as an "image"?
Q: If you were suddenly naked in front of everyone at work, what would you say to them?
A: "Suddenly naked"? I hate to answer the question with another question, but I take it that by "suddenly naked" it means that I wasn't expecting to be naked in front of my coworkers as though it was some sort of freak accident that robbed me of my clothes or some ninja sliced my clothes off with a kitana or something. There's such a wide array of instances that would render me "suddenly naked" and I doubt that many, if any of them at all, would be so seemingly normal so as to let me say to my coworkers something banal and obvious like, "Yes, this is my penis. Now get back to work before I slap you with it." Hmmmm...this is a good question because now in my mind I'm going through more and more occurrences that would make me naked suddenly. I think that my best remark about being rendered naked by a twist of fate in front of all my coworkers would have to be something impeccably timed and funny so as to draw attention away from my penis that would undoubtedly be reacting in its own way to the shock sudden and unexpected exposure and the casino's air conditioning. Then I would probably pick up the nearest phone, calmly dial a lawyer and get the wheels turning on a law suit against the casino for having the fucking air conditioning turned up so high that it robbed me of my dignity. Air conditioning does that to penises.
Q: If you were to be any famous person's personal masseuse, whose would you like to be?
A: There are a lot of possibilities for this question. On one hand I could go with the obvious and start naming all of these starlets with sexy backs. On the other hand I could name a whole list of morbidly obese celebrities (okay, the three or four of them who actually exist anymore) just so that, as a masseuse, I could make a better living because with a bigger back comes more overtime, and with more overtime comes better pay cheques and a better quality of life. Decisions. Decisions. Well, most starlets wouldn't give me the time of day anyway. I'm not saying that because I'm trying to be Mr. Oh-Isn't-He-So-Adorably-Humble, but because, come on, I'm a freakin' masseuse and since when do you see starlets dating masseuses? That's like dating a maid or a butler. Sure, there might be a starlet or two who could be desperate enough to have sex with a masseuse just to make their male celebrity love interest jealous or for headline fodder, but how often, realistically, is that going to happen? Nope, I'm going to have to choose to be the masseuse of the fattest celebrity around. But who would that be? Louie Anderson? Those world's fattest twins who ride motorcycles guys? Somebody like that. It doesn't matter who. I'm a masseuse by trade, not for the socializing. Hello pay cheque!
Q: If you could have hit any homerun in baseball history, which one would you choose?
A: Barry Bonds' #715. If I could be Barry Bonds, having spent most of my professional career juicing up (allegedly, he says *snicker*), I would have done #715 with a bit more bitterness. I mean, since you're all ready despised by everybody and made a villain by the media, why not go into the insane level of villainy and rip up a picture of Babe Ruth right at home plate as you cross it? That would be so cool. Because if everybody is intent on putting an asterisk beside your name you should do something else to make them remember you for more than just your footnote.
Q: If you had to go tonight to be tattooed, where on your body would you have it done and what image would you select?
A: I'd want to get Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" tattooed on my back. Since it's a really long poem it would have to be done in really small lettering. Does that count as an "image"?
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Hockey Town
Click here (Not Safe For Work)
Click here (Safe For Work)
Above I've posted a couple of links to websites that are doing a good job of documenting the mayhem that is happening in Edmonton's famed Whyte Avenue party district during the 2006 NHL playoffs. BlueMile.ca is the not safe for work site and CopperMile.ca is the family-oriented site.
Anyway, Saturday was kind of a peak insofar as the rampage goes, with rioting on Whyte reaching a seeming apex what with the Oilers securing their spot in the Stanley Cup finals.
The best way to put, though, has to be the way that Mike Gravel put it here.
After reading his accounts of the frenzy I think that I might just have to go down there to Whyte at least once just to say that I was part of it. The planets are lining up for my little burg and if you blink you might just miss it.
I just hope that the crackdown in response to Saturday's festivities isn't too severe that it would prevent me from experiencing some of the madness firsthand.
It makes me wonder how much louder we can get if, nay, when we win the Stanley Cup.
Click here (Safe For Work)
Above I've posted a couple of links to websites that are doing a good job of documenting the mayhem that is happening in Edmonton's famed Whyte Avenue party district during the 2006 NHL playoffs. BlueMile.ca is the not safe for work site and CopperMile.ca is the family-oriented site.
Anyway, Saturday was kind of a peak insofar as the rampage goes, with rioting on Whyte reaching a seeming apex what with the Oilers securing their spot in the Stanley Cup finals.
The best way to put, though, has to be the way that Mike Gravel put it here.
After reading his accounts of the frenzy I think that I might just have to go down there to Whyte at least once just to say that I was part of it. The planets are lining up for my little burg and if you blink you might just miss it.
I just hope that the crackdown in response to Saturday's festivities isn't too severe that it would prevent me from experiencing some of the madness firsthand.
It makes me wonder how much louder we can get if, nay, when we win the Stanley Cup.
Friday, May 26, 2006
The Bottom Ten, May 2006
10.) Capatin Obvious- Click here. And click here. The media has become aware of MySpace. Apparently, MySpace is a haven for sexual predators and terrorists. Gasp! Newsflash, fuckheads in the media, I bet all of those same sexual predators and terrorists have probably been to Google too! Oh my god! People of all kinds use the internet! I even have sneaking suspicions that terrorists and sexual deviants have access to email and telephones! How's that for scary news, morons?
9.) Energy Drinks- I haven't had that many energy drinks since they've become so popular so I'm not speaking from a huge amount of experience here, but is there one energy drink that doesn't taste like cat piss? Not that I know what cat piss tastes like, but come the fuck on. Every energy drink I've tried tastes terrible. I think it's that putrid fucking taste that gives people the real energy. Sure, you can blame it on the caffeine all you want, but that fucking taste alone will wake me up every time because immediately I need to clense my palate with something that doesn't make me fucking gag.
8.) Fucking Taxpayers' Whining- Okay, I know that I'm a taxpayer and I'm whining with this one in a way, but click here. 72-year-old mayor exchanging water bill discounts for sex? Fucking rights! I say that if you've put in the work to become the mayor of some shitwater-burg you should be well within your right to give out water bill discounts, sex or no sex. Not only that, but the geezer is 72 fucking years old, any woman who is willing to fuck him should get a water bill discount and a fucking sympathy basket for having to try to get off while looking at pasty old man flab riding you like some sort of palsy-ridden life-size statue of skeletor wrapped in a sheet of cookie dough. I don't know where the fuck I was going with that simile either. But fuck! 72-years-old! He probably had to have his viagra on some sort of IV drip and his personal nurse there to encourage him on:
Good job, sir. Awwwww, who's got a stiff wee-wee? That's right, it's Mr. Mayor! Be gentle with her, sir. Who's a stud? Who's a stud? Peek-A-Boo!
7.) People Who Talk To Geezers Like They're Toddlers- I know that when I hit the twilight of my life I sure as fuck don't want some hairy-moled nurse babbling at me like some kind of drooling fucktard. Just change my geezer diaper and get the fuck out of my sight. I want to watch daytime talk shows and bitch about celebrities all afternoon and you're cramping my style.
6.) Congress- Click here. Can't leave MySpace alone, can I? Apparently not. Neither can Congress. Seriously, though, it's one fucking site on a network of millions. It's like trying to bulldoze one part of town because a few bad people have been there. Bad people have been everywhere and we can't bulldoze the whole fucking city. Why not put more effort into proper education? An informed child is a safe child.
5.) Paris Hilton- She's definately an easy target, not only for me, but for anybody. Easy, that is, that target. Click here. Anyway, she apparently has a video game coming out. If there's one thing that should get the video game geeks of the world to buy that product it's the chance to be like Paris Hilton. All video game geeks would kill to be her. I'm all ready looking into pre-ordering that shit right up because I've always wondered what it would be like to be useless.
4.) Tampon Commercials- Okay, I've resigned to the fact that women have periods and, as such, there are corporations who have the tampon for them. Naturally, when you have shit to sell you need television commercials. But have you ever noticed how the women featured in the commercials are never appear irritable or moody? I'm no expert on women (amen to that, brother), but last time I checked quite a few women get irritable and moody around that time of the month. I'm not saying you have to have a thirty second commercial with a woman yelling at the cameraman that she's bloated, but, at the same time, don't bullshit the world into believing that all your customers are walking on cloud nine. But, then again, maybe I'm wrong. I'm no expert on women. And seriously, do you need that many commercials? They're all over the airwaves!
3.) The Beer Shortage- The outlook is getting quite grim around here? Have you made your pledge yet? If things keep up we'll have to resort to (gulp) hard liquor.
2.) Barbaro- The sports world was rocked by the news of racehorse Barbaro getting surgery done to repair broken bones in his ankle. I think this is clearly a marketing opportunity missed. Do you know how much you could ask for a bottle of glue made from Barbaro? A lot. I can see why you want to keep him alive for breeding and whatnot, but fuck, that would be some expensive glue. Think of the possibilities, people!
1.) Clueless Columnists- Click here. I'm all for the legalization of prostitution because it's easier to regulate who and who does not participate in the sex trade. This columnist suggests that legalization won't happen because the fun of prostitution stems from the fact that it's illegal. That's pretty dumb. If breaking the law was really the fun part of prostitution why would one go out of the way to spend money to break the law? People can "walk on the wild side" for free by breaking other laws. Steal a car. Pirate a stack of CDs. Go on a killing spree. You can call sex the fringe benefit all you want, but in reality it's the product for sale.
9.) Energy Drinks- I haven't had that many energy drinks since they've become so popular so I'm not speaking from a huge amount of experience here, but is there one energy drink that doesn't taste like cat piss? Not that I know what cat piss tastes like, but come the fuck on. Every energy drink I've tried tastes terrible. I think it's that putrid fucking taste that gives people the real energy. Sure, you can blame it on the caffeine all you want, but that fucking taste alone will wake me up every time because immediately I need to clense my palate with something that doesn't make me fucking gag.
8.) Fucking Taxpayers' Whining- Okay, I know that I'm a taxpayer and I'm whining with this one in a way, but click here. 72-year-old mayor exchanging water bill discounts for sex? Fucking rights! I say that if you've put in the work to become the mayor of some shitwater-burg you should be well within your right to give out water bill discounts, sex or no sex. Not only that, but the geezer is 72 fucking years old, any woman who is willing to fuck him should get a water bill discount and a fucking sympathy basket for having to try to get off while looking at pasty old man flab riding you like some sort of palsy-ridden life-size statue of skeletor wrapped in a sheet of cookie dough. I don't know where the fuck I was going with that simile either. But fuck! 72-years-old! He probably had to have his viagra on some sort of IV drip and his personal nurse there to encourage him on:
Good job, sir. Awwwww, who's got a stiff wee-wee? That's right, it's Mr. Mayor! Be gentle with her, sir. Who's a stud? Who's a stud? Peek-A-Boo!
7.) People Who Talk To Geezers Like They're Toddlers- I know that when I hit the twilight of my life I sure as fuck don't want some hairy-moled nurse babbling at me like some kind of drooling fucktard. Just change my geezer diaper and get the fuck out of my sight. I want to watch daytime talk shows and bitch about celebrities all afternoon and you're cramping my style.
6.) Congress- Click here. Can't leave MySpace alone, can I? Apparently not. Neither can Congress. Seriously, though, it's one fucking site on a network of millions. It's like trying to bulldoze one part of town because a few bad people have been there. Bad people have been everywhere and we can't bulldoze the whole fucking city. Why not put more effort into proper education? An informed child is a safe child.
5.) Paris Hilton- She's definately an easy target, not only for me, but for anybody. Easy, that is, that target. Click here. Anyway, she apparently has a video game coming out. If there's one thing that should get the video game geeks of the world to buy that product it's the chance to be like Paris Hilton. All video game geeks would kill to be her. I'm all ready looking into pre-ordering that shit right up because I've always wondered what it would be like to be useless.
4.) Tampon Commercials- Okay, I've resigned to the fact that women have periods and, as such, there are corporations who have the tampon for them. Naturally, when you have shit to sell you need television commercials. But have you ever noticed how the women featured in the commercials are never appear irritable or moody? I'm no expert on women (amen to that, brother), but last time I checked quite a few women get irritable and moody around that time of the month. I'm not saying you have to have a thirty second commercial with a woman yelling at the cameraman that she's bloated, but, at the same time, don't bullshit the world into believing that all your customers are walking on cloud nine. But, then again, maybe I'm wrong. I'm no expert on women. And seriously, do you need that many commercials? They're all over the airwaves!
3.) The Beer Shortage- The outlook is getting quite grim around here? Have you made your pledge yet? If things keep up we'll have to resort to (gulp) hard liquor.
2.) Barbaro- The sports world was rocked by the news of racehorse Barbaro getting surgery done to repair broken bones in his ankle. I think this is clearly a marketing opportunity missed. Do you know how much you could ask for a bottle of glue made from Barbaro? A lot. I can see why you want to keep him alive for breeding and whatnot, but fuck, that would be some expensive glue. Think of the possibilities, people!
1.) Clueless Columnists- Click here. I'm all for the legalization of prostitution because it's easier to regulate who and who does not participate in the sex trade. This columnist suggests that legalization won't happen because the fun of prostitution stems from the fact that it's illegal. That's pretty dumb. If breaking the law was really the fun part of prostitution why would one go out of the way to spend money to break the law? People can "walk on the wild side" for free by breaking other laws. Steal a car. Pirate a stack of CDs. Go on a killing spree. You can call sex the fringe benefit all you want, but in reality it's the product for sale.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
A Desperate Cry For Help
Click here.
As many of you know I live in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. In fact, I've lived in the Edmonton area for all of my life. As such, the professional sports team that I follow most closely is the Edmonton Oilers.
Now, there may be a few of you out there who follow the National Hockey League with some interest. There are probably a few out there who follow it marginally, say, when they talk about scores on the local news or they catch headlines on the sports page. Then, there are probably a few of you out there who don't even know what the Edmonton Oilers are, what hockey is for that matter, where Canada is on the map, and, hey, what's that thumb doing up your ass?
Anyway, it's playoff time in the National Hockey League, and the Edmonton Oilers are going deep in the playoffs for the first time in a long time. It's been exciting watching the whole city rally around the home team. The air is electric. It's refreshing to watch Edmontonian riot in celebration with fellow Edmontonian. Edmontonians getting pepper-sprayed and stabbed with Edmontonians. The paradox of a huge ball of chaos, unified around a love of hockey and the Oilers.
Now, if you read the article I linked above you will see that our fair city is in a critical situation. The beer supply is running out. I never thought I would live to see the day that a beer loving burg such as ours would ever find itself running low on beer.
So I'm posting this with the hopes of calling out to all of Edmonton's neighbors, not only in Canada, but abroad. We need beer. Lots of it. Stat! If you have beer to spare please donate. For the cost of only pennies a day you can help ensure that Edmontonians will continue to revel in beer-fueled mayhem throughout the NHL playoffs and beyond. The city your money can help destroy may just be our own. Please donate.
Operators are standing by.
Please give.
Seriously, though, I couldn't be prouder to be an Edmontonian right now, riots or no riots. Kick some ass, Oilers!
As many of you know I live in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. In fact, I've lived in the Edmonton area for all of my life. As such, the professional sports team that I follow most closely is the Edmonton Oilers.
Now, there may be a few of you out there who follow the National Hockey League with some interest. There are probably a few out there who follow it marginally, say, when they talk about scores on the local news or they catch headlines on the sports page. Then, there are probably a few of you out there who don't even know what the Edmonton Oilers are, what hockey is for that matter, where Canada is on the map, and, hey, what's that thumb doing up your ass?
Anyway, it's playoff time in the National Hockey League, and the Edmonton Oilers are going deep in the playoffs for the first time in a long time. It's been exciting watching the whole city rally around the home team. The air is electric. It's refreshing to watch Edmontonian riot in celebration with fellow Edmontonian. Edmontonians getting pepper-sprayed and stabbed with Edmontonians. The paradox of a huge ball of chaos, unified around a love of hockey and the Oilers.
Now, if you read the article I linked above you will see that our fair city is in a critical situation. The beer supply is running out. I never thought I would live to see the day that a beer loving burg such as ours would ever find itself running low on beer.
So I'm posting this with the hopes of calling out to all of Edmonton's neighbors, not only in Canada, but abroad. We need beer. Lots of it. Stat! If you have beer to spare please donate. For the cost of only pennies a day you can help ensure that Edmontonians will continue to revel in beer-fueled mayhem throughout the NHL playoffs and beyond. The city your money can help destroy may just be our own. Please donate.
Operators are standing by.
Please give.
Seriously, though, I couldn't be prouder to be an Edmontonian right now, riots or no riots. Kick some ass, Oilers!
Friday, May 19, 2006
You're Never Too Young To Start Manufacturing Crack
Click here.
Yep. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, some elementary school students have been suspended for the manufacturing and distribution of "Happy Crack." What is "Happy Crack" you ask? Well, it's Kool-Aid crystals mixed with sugar by these enterprising junior Tony Montanas and distributed in plastic bags.
Wait a minute. What the fuck?
Kool-Aid crystals? Perfectly legal.
Granulated sugar? Perfectly legal.
Kool-Aid crystals And granulated sugar? Suspension material.
What the fuck?
Okay, sure, one could argue that meth is manufactured from a lot of perfectly legal components, but come the fuck on, Kool-Aid crystals and sugar? I could probably inject that shit raw into my veins and maybe, just maybe, I'll be a bit hyper for an hour.
What's the street value of that shit anyway? Maybe $0.50 for 30 lbs? I'm just guessing here, but this certainly is a very poor drug dealing operation at best.
And I know that you're probably thinking that I'm admonishing the educational system for suspending students for this. But you know what? I'm all for the suspensions.
You have to teach kids right and "Happy Crack" just isn't going to ween addicts off of their other joneses. It's a slap in the face for the education system when they can't even get their students to start a profitable drug distribution ring. You have to suspend those little bastards so that next time they'll get it right.
Yep. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, some elementary school students have been suspended for the manufacturing and distribution of "Happy Crack." What is "Happy Crack" you ask? Well, it's Kool-Aid crystals mixed with sugar by these enterprising junior Tony Montanas and distributed in plastic bags.
Wait a minute. What the fuck?
Kool-Aid crystals? Perfectly legal.
Granulated sugar? Perfectly legal.
Kool-Aid crystals And granulated sugar? Suspension material.
What the fuck?
Okay, sure, one could argue that meth is manufactured from a lot of perfectly legal components, but come the fuck on, Kool-Aid crystals and sugar? I could probably inject that shit raw into my veins and maybe, just maybe, I'll be a bit hyper for an hour.
What's the street value of that shit anyway? Maybe $0.50 for 30 lbs? I'm just guessing here, but this certainly is a very poor drug dealing operation at best.
And I know that you're probably thinking that I'm admonishing the educational system for suspending students for this. But you know what? I'm all for the suspensions.
You have to teach kids right and "Happy Crack" just isn't going to ween addicts off of their other joneses. It's a slap in the face for the education system when they can't even get their students to start a profitable drug distribution ring. You have to suspend those little bastards so that next time they'll get it right.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Classic Michael Appleby
Broccoli Farts
“Starting a poem ‘Love is’
seems just so…so…so…
unoriginal,”
I say.
“Stop worrying about it and
just do it. Who gives a fuck?
You’re the artist, it’s your art.
Do what you want,”
She replies.
I love it when she swears,
but I haven’t told her that before.
And she lets one rip,
long and loud, thick like I can see it,
a fart with dreams of world domination,
a war trumpet of the intestinal tract.
Giggles, then starts to billow the sheets
‘til we’re bathed in methane.
And really, I’m not reminded of dinner.
I’m imagining the scents of jasmine and lavender.
Detections of red rose,
white oleander.
Okay, maybe not.
But I abide. I don’t care.
I’m used to her scent by now.
And I let one roar of my own,
deep like a foghorn,
cutting through bedding
like an ocean liner through the mist.
She groans
and I reciprocate
by billowing the sheets some more.
“Take that,”
I quip.
And before I know it
I’ve rolled over to turn on the bedside lamp,
letting me scratch in my notebook:
Love is the broccoli farts
we feel wash over our skin
as welcomed matching
one piece footy pajamas
and we don’t care.
We’ll wear them with pride.
-Michael Appleby
October, 2004
“Starting a poem ‘Love is’
seems just so…so…so…
unoriginal,”
I say.
“Stop worrying about it and
just do it. Who gives a fuck?
You’re the artist, it’s your art.
Do what you want,”
She replies.
I love it when she swears,
but I haven’t told her that before.
And she lets one rip,
long and loud, thick like I can see it,
a fart with dreams of world domination,
a war trumpet of the intestinal tract.
Giggles, then starts to billow the sheets
‘til we’re bathed in methane.
And really, I’m not reminded of dinner.
I’m imagining the scents of jasmine and lavender.
Detections of red rose,
white oleander.
Okay, maybe not.
But I abide. I don’t care.
I’m used to her scent by now.
And I let one roar of my own,
deep like a foghorn,
cutting through bedding
like an ocean liner through the mist.
She groans
and I reciprocate
by billowing the sheets some more.
“Take that,”
I quip.
And before I know it
I’ve rolled over to turn on the bedside lamp,
letting me scratch in my notebook:
Love is the broccoli farts
we feel wash over our skin
as welcomed matching
one piece footy pajamas
and we don’t care.
We’ll wear them with pride.
-Michael Appleby
October, 2004
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
But Is It Art?
Britney has spoken up about the sculpture in the picture above. Yes, it is a picture of an actual sculpture of actual Britney fucking Spears giving actual fucking birth while clutching a fucking wolf's head, which, if all the accounts of the birthing Baby Cletus Federline Jr. I've read are true, is, in fact, how it happened, Britney on all fours, clutching a wolf's head and shooting out spawn like a potato gun. The sculpture is supposed to be a pro-life artistic statement of some sort and can be seen at the Capla Kesting Fine Art gallery in Brooklyn. So if you're interested in seeing a very unusual piece of art do make your way to Brooklyn to check out "Monument to Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston."
Britney says that she was "dumbfounded" by the sculpture and I'm going to avoid any clearly obvious jokes about Britney being "dumbfounded" by anything because that's just too easy.
I will, however, ponder this thing as best as I can from only having a picture of the actual piece as opposed to the piece itself.
First off, why Britney to make your pro-life statement. I mean, if you're so interested in jumping on the "every sperm is sacred" (god bless you Monty Python) movement bandwagon, why do it with a sculpture of Britney Spears giving birth? It seems to me that if you wanted to make people viewing your sculpture think that preserving all the sperm and eggs you can is the way to go you'd be better off to depict a woman whom people revere giving birth so that you can think, "Holy fuck I'm glad that woman didn't abort when she had the chance." Maybe the artist views Britney as being that woman worthy of reverence. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I really don't have a lot of respect for any work that Britney has done so I'm probably not going to look at her ejecting another materialistic celebrity baby out into the world as being a pro-life-sculpture-worthy-event (is that even a proper word with all those hyphens?).
But what do you think? When you look at that statue (is it considered a statue?) do you suddenly feel compelled to want to hug a fetus? Maybe you do. I think the message is lost on me because of how I regard the pop princess. Is that the point?
I suppose this makes it a very good piece of art because it's doing its job. It's provoking people to think. It's definitely a provocative piece.
And does anybody else wonder if it would be at all possible to get a coffee table made out of a replica of that sculpture? That would be a fucking thought-provoking surface for any living room or den.
Yep, just go right on ahead and set your beer down on Britney's back there. What? The spawn crawling out of her gaping vagina is ruining your appetite, you say? You're supposed to look at it and think that life is great, Dave. Hey wait, were you brought up in a fucking barn, asshole?! You gotta use a fucking coaster for this shit. It's a replica piece of modern pro-life art coffee table, not some milk crate from out of the dumpster. Show some fucking respect to the biological processes! Fuck!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
10,000 Days
So yesterday, as many of you may or may not have known if you are regular visitors to this blog, was the official release date of Tool's latest album 10,000 Days. As you may have guessed from my semi-regular countdown leading up to the release date, I was the kind of Tool fan who had to make his way down to Best Buy the day of to get my grubby little paws on the new offering.
After having listened to it I can say that, musically, it's unlike anything else I've ever heard. You know what? The texture of their music seems to only get richer with each album. The massive sound that four guys can produce never ceases to amaze me. I do think that from my first experiences with this disc that the song structures are the most non-traditional song structures they've ever done. It's just amazing to listen to.
I'm still on the fence as to whether or not it tops Lateralus, if it will top Lateralus, or if it even should try to top Lateralus.
You should definitely check it out if you get a chance. It's a powerful piece of music.
Also, before I forget....
Happy Birthdays Nadine, Darcy, Ian, and Cory. See you soon, hopefully.
Peace out folks. Will post more later.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Confessing The Miracle
10,000 Days is tomorrow!
I thought for a change we would take a trip down memory lane. It's also somewhat of a confessional for me so that you can get a better idea of the kind of man I am.
Now I wasn't always the metropolitan cultural demi-god that regularly updates an internet blog with stories of donkey punching, mushroom stamping, and Cleveland steamers. Once upon a time yours truly found himself growing up in a very small town in Alberta that shall go nameless for the purposes of this post. Why nameless, you ask? Really, this is a story that could come out of just about any small Alberta town, so keeping my hometown nameless makes it just a bit more universal. Secondly, by "universal" I mean "universally shameful." Many of you who know me on a personal level know which town I'm from and can probably remember this story. For those of you who absolutely have to know the name of my town and if there are any corroborating photographs documenting the following you only need to ask and I will most likely provide you with all the answers I can give (well, not so much with photographs because that would just be sick on so many levels as you will soon see).
In my high school days I was quite a scholar. As such I earned a lot of credits toward my high school diploma early on, which meant that I didn't have to take as many courses in my later high school years, meaning I ended up with gaps in my school schedule, which we called spares, all the time. One year (I can't remember which year it was exactly as it was, indeed, a long, long time ago and seemingly in a galaxy far, far away), during one of my spares, I found a source a secret shame, not so much for me, but for my hometown. I didn't really realize how profoundly it would affect my life from there on in.
I want to tell you about the Miracle In Stall 1.
See? Now while many of you out there who visit this site might not get an instant mental image of where they were when the Miracle In Stall 1 happened, I bet there are probably a few of you out there who recall it like it was only yesterday. It's funny how some things just become a part of your identity that you never thought could become such a defining moment in your life.
Back to my spares. So there I was sitting in the school's student lounge. To give you an idea of how big my school was, it was educating 248 students from grades 7, through 12. A lot of graduating classes in urban areas were bigger than the entire student population in our dinky little backwoods school, but that's more of a descriptive aside. And I was sitting with Larry and Martin, a couple of buddies whom I was fortunate enough to have spares with at the time and Larry excused himself to go to the washroom as he was wont to do when he had to perform bodily functions because even though he was from a dinky little Alberta town he wasn't incontinent.
After a minute or two an exasperated Larry ran back to the student lounge to inform Martin and me of something he had discovered floating in the toilet in one of the stalls in the washroom. He had found what would later be referred to in hushed tones of reverence and marvel around my town from then on as The Miracle In Stall 1. Now, when I had first heard of the miracle I actually could not bring myself to actually go and view it, but from how Larry described it, it was, indeed, a piece of human fecal matter that was about the size of a baby's arm, and thick like a deli salami. The reason why I couldn't bring myself to go and view the miracle was partly because staring at somebody else's shit makes me want to gag and, more importantly, it was a piece of shit and really not something that should be held in such high regard as to turn it into a public exhibition.
So anyway, I could overlook the fact that there were already a few people who were gathering yon washroom to take a gander at the huge log left behind by some anonymous gargantuan of a man, but it got to a point where classes were getting interupted as kids just had to go and see this huge piece of shit that everybody was talking about.
That's one of those moments when I decided that I was going to evolve into somebody rather scholarly. Because there I was, a resident in a town that would, in all likelihood, bronze a large piece of fecal matter, mount it on a plaque, and turn it into some sort of point of interest for locals and tourists alike.
[insert town name here]: Home of the Human Miracle in Stall 1!
Larry talked of giving sober consideration to rescuing it from its toilet prison and preserving it for posterity. The school janitor spoke of how badly it clogged the toilet when at last the novelty of a huge piece of shit in a toilet had worn off and the curious bystander traffic to the boy's washroom had diminished somewhat. I suppose it doesn't matter what actually happened to that huge, huge turd. But it was kind of an earth-shattering moment if you think about it. If it had never happened I probably would not have been as put-off by small town life as I was in the aftermath and you might never have seen me move to the city. If that had never happened I might never have really learned to do something with the English language (sure, I wrote a lot back then, but not nearly as well as I can sling words now), and, if that had never happened, I probably would not have started this blog, or if I had it would probably be some kind of internet shrine to a huge steaming turd that's been bronzed and mounted on a commemorative plaque over the toilet in Stall 1.
Somewhere in a parallel universe that is exactly what happened in my hometown. In that parallel universe the town stopped championing cartoons and it started championing fibre diets, staying regular, larger toilets, and distended rectums. Elsewhere, in some other parallel universe that piece of shit was flushed successfully, got lodged somewhere in the sewer system and became a sort of niche for millions microbes, becoming, in essence, a living organism unto itself, maybe kind of like the Great Barrier Reef of shit, or maybe sprouting legs and evolving into some sort of entirely new organism, making the man who took the giant dump in the first place a sort of catalyst for new life forms to emerge.
And sometimes, and this is in this universe, you can sometimes go to my hometown and utter the words Miracle In Stall 1 and somebody in your vicinity will not only know what you are talking about, but they will probably acknowledge it with their own tale of where they were when they first heard that it happened kind of like people remember where they were when they learned JFK was assassinated of Lady Di died in a car accident. Except it would all be about somebody's giant B.M.
And, begrudgingly, I owe a lot of who I am to that lump of human misery. In a way it made me who I am today.
So whoever you are, mystery layer of said baby's-arm-long, thick-as-a-deli-salami, piece of shit, you have my gratitude for making me want to flee to the city all those years ago.
Thank you.
I thought for a change we would take a trip down memory lane. It's also somewhat of a confessional for me so that you can get a better idea of the kind of man I am.
Now I wasn't always the metropolitan cultural demi-god that regularly updates an internet blog with stories of donkey punching, mushroom stamping, and Cleveland steamers. Once upon a time yours truly found himself growing up in a very small town in Alberta that shall go nameless for the purposes of this post. Why nameless, you ask? Really, this is a story that could come out of just about any small Alberta town, so keeping my hometown nameless makes it just a bit more universal. Secondly, by "universal" I mean "universally shameful." Many of you who know me on a personal level know which town I'm from and can probably remember this story. For those of you who absolutely have to know the name of my town and if there are any corroborating photographs documenting the following you only need to ask and I will most likely provide you with all the answers I can give (well, not so much with photographs because that would just be sick on so many levels as you will soon see).
In my high school days I was quite a scholar. As such I earned a lot of credits toward my high school diploma early on, which meant that I didn't have to take as many courses in my later high school years, meaning I ended up with gaps in my school schedule, which we called spares, all the time. One year (I can't remember which year it was exactly as it was, indeed, a long, long time ago and seemingly in a galaxy far, far away), during one of my spares, I found a source a secret shame, not so much for me, but for my hometown. I didn't really realize how profoundly it would affect my life from there on in.
I want to tell you about the Miracle In Stall 1.
See? Now while many of you out there who visit this site might not get an instant mental image of where they were when the Miracle In Stall 1 happened, I bet there are probably a few of you out there who recall it like it was only yesterday. It's funny how some things just become a part of your identity that you never thought could become such a defining moment in your life.
Back to my spares. So there I was sitting in the school's student lounge. To give you an idea of how big my school was, it was educating 248 students from grades 7, through 12. A lot of graduating classes in urban areas were bigger than the entire student population in our dinky little backwoods school, but that's more of a descriptive aside. And I was sitting with Larry and Martin, a couple of buddies whom I was fortunate enough to have spares with at the time and Larry excused himself to go to the washroom as he was wont to do when he had to perform bodily functions because even though he was from a dinky little Alberta town he wasn't incontinent.
After a minute or two an exasperated Larry ran back to the student lounge to inform Martin and me of something he had discovered floating in the toilet in one of the stalls in the washroom. He had found what would later be referred to in hushed tones of reverence and marvel around my town from then on as The Miracle In Stall 1. Now, when I had first heard of the miracle I actually could not bring myself to actually go and view it, but from how Larry described it, it was, indeed, a piece of human fecal matter that was about the size of a baby's arm, and thick like a deli salami. The reason why I couldn't bring myself to go and view the miracle was partly because staring at somebody else's shit makes me want to gag and, more importantly, it was a piece of shit and really not something that should be held in such high regard as to turn it into a public exhibition.
So anyway, I could overlook the fact that there were already a few people who were gathering yon washroom to take a gander at the huge log left behind by some anonymous gargantuan of a man, but it got to a point where classes were getting interupted as kids just had to go and see this huge piece of shit that everybody was talking about.
That's one of those moments when I decided that I was going to evolve into somebody rather scholarly. Because there I was, a resident in a town that would, in all likelihood, bronze a large piece of fecal matter, mount it on a plaque, and turn it into some sort of point of interest for locals and tourists alike.
[insert town name here]: Home of the Human Miracle in Stall 1!
Larry talked of giving sober consideration to rescuing it from its toilet prison and preserving it for posterity. The school janitor spoke of how badly it clogged the toilet when at last the novelty of a huge piece of shit in a toilet had worn off and the curious bystander traffic to the boy's washroom had diminished somewhat. I suppose it doesn't matter what actually happened to that huge, huge turd. But it was kind of an earth-shattering moment if you think about it. If it had never happened I probably would not have been as put-off by small town life as I was in the aftermath and you might never have seen me move to the city. If that had never happened I might never have really learned to do something with the English language (sure, I wrote a lot back then, but not nearly as well as I can sling words now), and, if that had never happened, I probably would not have started this blog, or if I had it would probably be some kind of internet shrine to a huge steaming turd that's been bronzed and mounted on a commemorative plaque over the toilet in Stall 1.
Somewhere in a parallel universe that is exactly what happened in my hometown. In that parallel universe the town stopped championing cartoons and it started championing fibre diets, staying regular, larger toilets, and distended rectums. Elsewhere, in some other parallel universe that piece of shit was flushed successfully, got lodged somewhere in the sewer system and became a sort of niche for millions microbes, becoming, in essence, a living organism unto itself, maybe kind of like the Great Barrier Reef of shit, or maybe sprouting legs and evolving into some sort of entirely new organism, making the man who took the giant dump in the first place a sort of catalyst for new life forms to emerge.
And sometimes, and this is in this universe, you can sometimes go to my hometown and utter the words Miracle In Stall 1 and somebody in your vicinity will not only know what you are talking about, but they will probably acknowledge it with their own tale of where they were when they first heard that it happened kind of like people remember where they were when they learned JFK was assassinated of Lady Di died in a car accident. Except it would all be about somebody's giant B.M.
And, begrudgingly, I owe a lot of who I am to that lump of human misery. In a way it made me who I am today.
So whoever you are, mystery layer of said baby's-arm-long, thick-as-a-deli-salami, piece of shit, you have my gratitude for making me want to flee to the city all those years ago.
Thank you.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thank You
4 days until 10,000 Days.
This is just a brief post before I go to bed. I just wanted to quickly write a note to all the people who have given me their support during the latest reading series put on by the Raving Poets, "Rock The Kasbar." The series finale was last night and it was one of those rare instances in which a cash prize of $300.00, known as the Golden Fez Award, was up for grabs to the best poet of the night according to a panel of celebrity judges.
In the weeks leading up to the finale the top two poets of each reading, as voted by the audience members, were given guaranteed spots in the final show with a choice of where on the reading order they wanted to appear. I secured my spot on the first night of audience voting. The other poets who secured spots were J.D. Lavender, Phil Jagger, Aaron Evringham, Jadon Rempel, and Michelle Rempel. I got third pick of where I would read in the order and, seeing that the last spot, a spot that has been notoriously lucky for me through the years, was open, I took up my favorite spot. It was actually very intense for me to sit through the rest of the reading order because every poet was bringing out these amazing poems. In my mind I was pretty sure there was no way that I could possibly win and in my mind I still can't figure out how I did it, but I did it.
So, thank you to everybody who showed their support of my work. It has meant a lot and always will. To the other poets who were part of that show, it really could have been any one of us receiving that generous cash prize at the end of the night. Like I said, I was pretty sure that I was beat even before I got up there behind the mic.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you all.
As for the poem itself. I have to do some brushing up on it and my plans are to put it up on my little corner of the Raving Poets website. The title of the poem was "King Handlebars" and it was about a man and his moustache and so much more (or at least that's what I was trying to do with it).
I'll resume my normal posting schedule. Thank you once again.
This is just a brief post before I go to bed. I just wanted to quickly write a note to all the people who have given me their support during the latest reading series put on by the Raving Poets, "Rock The Kasbar." The series finale was last night and it was one of those rare instances in which a cash prize of $300.00, known as the Golden Fez Award, was up for grabs to the best poet of the night according to a panel of celebrity judges.
In the weeks leading up to the finale the top two poets of each reading, as voted by the audience members, were given guaranteed spots in the final show with a choice of where on the reading order they wanted to appear. I secured my spot on the first night of audience voting. The other poets who secured spots were J.D. Lavender, Phil Jagger, Aaron Evringham, Jadon Rempel, and Michelle Rempel. I got third pick of where I would read in the order and, seeing that the last spot, a spot that has been notoriously lucky for me through the years, was open, I took up my favorite spot. It was actually very intense for me to sit through the rest of the reading order because every poet was bringing out these amazing poems. In my mind I was pretty sure there was no way that I could possibly win and in my mind I still can't figure out how I did it, but I did it.
So, thank you to everybody who showed their support of my work. It has meant a lot and always will. To the other poets who were part of that show, it really could have been any one of us receiving that generous cash prize at the end of the night. Like I said, I was pretty sure that I was beat even before I got up there behind the mic.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you all.
As for the poem itself. I have to do some brushing up on it and my plans are to put it up on my little corner of the Raving Poets website. The title of the poem was "King Handlebars" and it was about a man and his moustache and so much more (or at least that's what I was trying to do with it).
I'll resume my normal posting schedule. Thank you once again.
Monday, April 24, 2006
The Bottom Ten, April 2006
8 days until 10,000 Days.
10.) Kissing Time Limits- In Tangarang, which is this city in Indonesia, city officials have imposed a time limit on kissing. Why the fuck would anybody want to do that, you might be asking? Well, it's all part of an effort to curb prostitution in that particular city. Now, if you look past the obvious problem of police officers timing people as they kiss when they could be preventing incidents of rape and murder what you might see in this measure is innovation. So now when you are in Tangerang and you hire the services of a prostitute you can rest assured that she will only kiss you for the allotted time limit, then you can get down to the blowjobs, donkey punches, and bukkake. It streamlines the whole prostitution process, making transactions quicker and more efficient. This could revolutionize the whole industry. Prostitutes everwhere could learn a thing or two from the industrious city officials of Tangerang.
9.) The Mullet- I feel like I've talked about the mullet in The Bottom Ten before. It's like deja vu, but I really have to talk about how perplexing it all is. I think that the mullet is now nature's most confounding hairstyle. On one hand it's the do of choice for rednecks, hillbillies, hockey players, and the illiterati. On the other hand, it's quite possibly the most ironic look that can be worn by somebody who knows better. Now when I see somebody sporting the neck blanket I have to ask myself if I'm looking at an ignoramus or a clever hipster. I hate having to bring a slide rule with me when I'm walking around in public.
8.) Ticket Presales- I get more and more presale offers for tickets to concerts and major events than most people. It stems from the fact that I sign up for all of these different services that offer presale opportunities. That being said, I've found that as more and more presale offers come to me the shittier the seats to these events available in the presales are getting. It leads to a huge dilemma for me. Do I go in on the presale and take advantage of getting to sit in a seat that is less-than-ideal, for lack of a better word to describe it or do I wait until tickets go on sale to the general public for a chance, a slim, slim, sliver-thick chance at getting a seat that won't make me pass out from being at such high altitudes without an oxygen mask? Or maybe I just pay four or five times the face-value of the ticket to a broker to get exactly the tickets I want. What the fuck is a sucker to do?
7.) Carpet Lawsuit Bombing- The RIAA is definitely an organization I've alluded to before, though maybe not in a Bottom Ten list. So welcome to the Bottom Ten, assholes! It's no secret that the Gestapo of the RIAA will sue anything that moves, but, come on, a family that doesn't even own a PC? How the fuck are they pirating music, retards? Do you guys even do any research into the people you sue? Just draw names out a hat? I think it's time to just hold a press conference to apologize to the world for being a bunch of assholes and ruining the music industry.
6.) Star Power- If you read this little blurb about the upcoming release of Clerks II you might notice the little bit about Harvey Weinstein insisting to Kevin Smith that at least one "boldface name" appear in the movie, leading to the casting of Rosario Dawson. What irks me about this is that Clerks II is a sequel to a huge cult classic. It can cruise just fine without any boldface names. It's predecessor is proven. Why the fuck tinker with a winning formula just to incorporate celebrities?
5.) People Cashing In On Controversy- Somewhere a man names the restaurant that he is about to open The Pink Taco. What happens? City officials get angry because it will offend people. Sure, people who get offended at the combination of the words "pink" and "taco" placed side by side in a restaurant name are probably the kind of people you would want to move out of your city, but you just know that the man behind the name is using the name to make a few bucks. I don't see why anybody would have a problem with naming my pizza shop The Festering Ass Boil. It's from the old country; it means "great pizza." Meanwhile, there are probably really good, if not better, Mexican restaurants that will fall by the wayside when The Pink Taco opens simply because they aren't named after vagina. I can understand why somebody would go out and intentionally cause controversy like this, but it still seems kind of underhanded. Damn these ethics!
4.) More Pink Taco- David Roderique, the economic-vitality director for Scottsdale, also giggled when asked about the restaurant. Then he regained his composure.
"While there may be some people who have concerns about the name of the restaurant, we've got a younger crowd who appreciates more diversity and finding ways to slap the establishment," he said.
Yeah, there's no better way to "slap the establishment" than by eating at a restaurant with a name that the economic-vitality director of Scottsdale seemingly finds amusing. Take that establisment! Yep, I can see the militant anarchists lining right up to eat at the Pink Taco already. The Pink Taco: Come For The Controversy Of A Sexual Name, Stay For The Nihilism!
3.) Summer Home-Reno Projects- Say what you will about the nipple-crushing cold of winter at least it didn't inspire your neighbors to start revving up the table saw at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning as part of garage renovation project.
2.) Putting The Snow Shovel Back In The Garage- Holy fuck! Why the fuck did the garage have to built all the way back there? That's a long fucking way to carry a fucking snow shovel! Fuck it, it's Canada, we'll probably have another blizzard in a week, trust me.
1.) Logic- Logic is such a bitch! Seriously, in an effort to curb piracy of movies in China, Warner Bros. is releasing some of their movies at severely reduced prices minus all the fancy packaging to compete with pirates. You can buy The Aviator for a dollar fucking fifty! Here, though, you have to pay upwards of twenty bucks for the same movie, but at least we get that eighteen dollars worth of packaging, which, as we all know, makes it all worth it. And then Warner Bros. wonders why there is so much piracy going on. It's because people are pissed off that they have to pay $25.00 for a DVD when you're willing to sell that same DVD in China for $1.50. Fuckheads!
10.) Kissing Time Limits- In Tangarang, which is this city in Indonesia, city officials have imposed a time limit on kissing. Why the fuck would anybody want to do that, you might be asking? Well, it's all part of an effort to curb prostitution in that particular city. Now, if you look past the obvious problem of police officers timing people as they kiss when they could be preventing incidents of rape and murder what you might see in this measure is innovation. So now when you are in Tangerang and you hire the services of a prostitute you can rest assured that she will only kiss you for the allotted time limit, then you can get down to the blowjobs, donkey punches, and bukkake. It streamlines the whole prostitution process, making transactions quicker and more efficient. This could revolutionize the whole industry. Prostitutes everwhere could learn a thing or two from the industrious city officials of Tangerang.
9.) The Mullet- I feel like I've talked about the mullet in The Bottom Ten before. It's like deja vu, but I really have to talk about how perplexing it all is. I think that the mullet is now nature's most confounding hairstyle. On one hand it's the do of choice for rednecks, hillbillies, hockey players, and the illiterati. On the other hand, it's quite possibly the most ironic look that can be worn by somebody who knows better. Now when I see somebody sporting the neck blanket I have to ask myself if I'm looking at an ignoramus or a clever hipster. I hate having to bring a slide rule with me when I'm walking around in public.
8.) Ticket Presales- I get more and more presale offers for tickets to concerts and major events than most people. It stems from the fact that I sign up for all of these different services that offer presale opportunities. That being said, I've found that as more and more presale offers come to me the shittier the seats to these events available in the presales are getting. It leads to a huge dilemma for me. Do I go in on the presale and take advantage of getting to sit in a seat that is less-than-ideal, for lack of a better word to describe it or do I wait until tickets go on sale to the general public for a chance, a slim, slim, sliver-thick chance at getting a seat that won't make me pass out from being at such high altitudes without an oxygen mask? Or maybe I just pay four or five times the face-value of the ticket to a broker to get exactly the tickets I want. What the fuck is a sucker to do?
7.) Carpet Lawsuit Bombing- The RIAA is definitely an organization I've alluded to before, though maybe not in a Bottom Ten list. So welcome to the Bottom Ten, assholes! It's no secret that the Gestapo of the RIAA will sue anything that moves, but, come on, a family that doesn't even own a PC? How the fuck are they pirating music, retards? Do you guys even do any research into the people you sue? Just draw names out a hat? I think it's time to just hold a press conference to apologize to the world for being a bunch of assholes and ruining the music industry.
6.) Star Power- If you read this little blurb about the upcoming release of Clerks II you might notice the little bit about Harvey Weinstein insisting to Kevin Smith that at least one "boldface name" appear in the movie, leading to the casting of Rosario Dawson. What irks me about this is that Clerks II is a sequel to a huge cult classic. It can cruise just fine without any boldface names. It's predecessor is proven. Why the fuck tinker with a winning formula just to incorporate celebrities?
5.) People Cashing In On Controversy- Somewhere a man names the restaurant that he is about to open The Pink Taco. What happens? City officials get angry because it will offend people. Sure, people who get offended at the combination of the words "pink" and "taco" placed side by side in a restaurant name are probably the kind of people you would want to move out of your city, but you just know that the man behind the name is using the name to make a few bucks. I don't see why anybody would have a problem with naming my pizza shop The Festering Ass Boil. It's from the old country; it means "great pizza." Meanwhile, there are probably really good, if not better, Mexican restaurants that will fall by the wayside when The Pink Taco opens simply because they aren't named after vagina. I can understand why somebody would go out and intentionally cause controversy like this, but it still seems kind of underhanded. Damn these ethics!
4.) More Pink Taco- David Roderique, the economic-vitality director for Scottsdale, also giggled when asked about the restaurant. Then he regained his composure.
"While there may be some people who have concerns about the name of the restaurant, we've got a younger crowd who appreciates more diversity and finding ways to slap the establishment," he said.
Yeah, there's no better way to "slap the establishment" than by eating at a restaurant with a name that the economic-vitality director of Scottsdale seemingly finds amusing. Take that establisment! Yep, I can see the militant anarchists lining right up to eat at the Pink Taco already. The Pink Taco: Come For The Controversy Of A Sexual Name, Stay For The Nihilism!
3.) Summer Home-Reno Projects- Say what you will about the nipple-crushing cold of winter at least it didn't inspire your neighbors to start revving up the table saw at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning as part of garage renovation project.
2.) Putting The Snow Shovel Back In The Garage- Holy fuck! Why the fuck did the garage have to built all the way back there? That's a long fucking way to carry a fucking snow shovel! Fuck it, it's Canada, we'll probably have another blizzard in a week, trust me.
1.) Logic- Logic is such a bitch! Seriously, in an effort to curb piracy of movies in China, Warner Bros. is releasing some of their movies at severely reduced prices minus all the fancy packaging to compete with pirates. You can buy The Aviator for a dollar fucking fifty! Here, though, you have to pay upwards of twenty bucks for the same movie, but at least we get that eighteen dollars worth of packaging, which, as we all know, makes it all worth it. And then Warner Bros. wonders why there is so much piracy going on. It's because people are pissed off that they have to pay $25.00 for a DVD when you're willing to sell that same DVD in China for $1.50. Fuckheads!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Classic Michael Appleby
11 Days until 10,000 Days.
Here's the poem that I performed this week at the Raving Poets show. It was written back in September of 2003. It's one of those poems that was written, performed maybe once or twice around the time of its construction and was kind of lost in the shuffle. It was nice to have a chance to dust it off for the RP audience since I had no need for their votes this week, having secured a spot in the six top vote-getters going into next week's big finale show. Enjoy.
italiana
she’s letting down her hair in dark curtains
a perfect contrast to the stark white of her skin
and the skinny skeleton she makes
becomes more woman
and she’s whispering to me
but i can’t make out what she’s saying
and that’s okay
because it’s a triumph of intimacy
over any need for coherence
the nape of her neck thrown behind a veil
the smell of her jasmine ripe on her wrist
telegraphs from rho in her hip pocket
and
i
don’t
even
speak
italian
the curl of her tongue as she’s mouthing the words
slowly deliberately
i
don’t
even
dare
to
speak
because i might miss the glisten
of the soft act
of wetting her lips
or a quick almost undetectable spasm
in the musculature above her right knee
the lazy preoccupied dangle of the tip of her foot
and the silent speculation of
wondering
if
she’s
as
nervous
as
i
am
Here's the poem that I performed this week at the Raving Poets show. It was written back in September of 2003. It's one of those poems that was written, performed maybe once or twice around the time of its construction and was kind of lost in the shuffle. It was nice to have a chance to dust it off for the RP audience since I had no need for their votes this week, having secured a spot in the six top vote-getters going into next week's big finale show. Enjoy.
italiana
she’s letting down her hair in dark curtains
a perfect contrast to the stark white of her skin
and the skinny skeleton she makes
becomes more woman
and she’s whispering to me
but i can’t make out what she’s saying
and that’s okay
because it’s a triumph of intimacy
over any need for coherence
the nape of her neck thrown behind a veil
the smell of her jasmine ripe on her wrist
telegraphs from rho in her hip pocket
and
i
don’t
even
speak
italian
the curl of her tongue as she’s mouthing the words
slowly deliberately
i
don’t
even
dare
to
speak
because i might miss the glisten
of the soft act
of wetting her lips
or a quick almost undetectable spasm
in the musculature above her right knee
the lazy preoccupied dangle of the tip of her foot
and the silent speculation of
wondering
if
she’s
as
nervous
as
i
am
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Still Believes In Posting
12 Days Until 10,000 Days.
Walking back to my car along Whyte Avenue after the poetry reading at Yianni's Taverna I found myself looking into the various storefronts that I was passing along the way. As I passed some shop that sells bath and beauty supplies I think (you know, one of those shops that if you walk into it your olfactory will explode) I noticed a sign hanging in the storefront window reading, and I quote verbatim: Still Against Animal Testing.
And a couple of thoughts came to me just then as I read that sign.
First of all, when the fuck did they start doubting their position regarding animal testing? To hang a sign stating that they are still against it means that at some point they probably held a board meeting of some sort to see how they felt about animal testing. At that meeting it was decided that the company was still against it, but I think that there had to be a moment of limbo or two in which the decision could have gone either way.
Secondly, a sign that reads: Still Against Animal Testing is clearly hanging there to characterize the store. Sure, you could shop at those other bath and beauty product stores, but we're the one that is against animal testing. And this kind of made me angry because it's rather presumptuous to set yourself apart as the store that's against animal testing. How do you really know that all the other stores are lining up to club puppies and throw kittens against brick walls in the name of bath and beauty products? You don't. In fact, I think I would make it a point to shop specifically at a store that hung a sign reading: Still Believes In Animal Testing just because it's the unpopular position to take. Fuck, I would even tip every staff member at a store with a sign that read; So In Favor Of Animal Testing That You Can Come Right In And Test The Animals With Us Just For Shits And Giggles If You Want because places like that probably don't make a lot of money and if society is ever going to conquer the plague of corporate imperialism we have to start by supporting mom and pop opperations like Seal Clubbers Inc. and the Rabbit Eyeball Injections For No Apparent Reason Other Than We're Totally Fucking Insane Footwear Boutique And Buffet.
Finally, I came up with a edit for that sign that would have clarified things considerably: Still Against Animal Testing, But Still In Favor Of Deforestation To Make Stupid Fucking Signs To Make Our Moneylust Look Ethical. I suppose it's thinking like this that has kept me from being a successful entrepreneur.
And I suppose that if we chopped down all the forests to make stupid fucking signs to state the obvious then the animals that we're saving by not performing inhumane tests on them won't have any places to live, which means we'll have to keep them confined and overcrowded in cramped cages. If that's the case then we might as well just perform the stupid-ass tests because what the fuck else can we do with them taking up all that perfectly useful room in our cages?
Walking back to my car along Whyte Avenue after the poetry reading at Yianni's Taverna I found myself looking into the various storefronts that I was passing along the way. As I passed some shop that sells bath and beauty supplies I think (you know, one of those shops that if you walk into it your olfactory will explode) I noticed a sign hanging in the storefront window reading, and I quote verbatim: Still Against Animal Testing.
And a couple of thoughts came to me just then as I read that sign.
First of all, when the fuck did they start doubting their position regarding animal testing? To hang a sign stating that they are still against it means that at some point they probably held a board meeting of some sort to see how they felt about animal testing. At that meeting it was decided that the company was still against it, but I think that there had to be a moment of limbo or two in which the decision could have gone either way.
Secondly, a sign that reads: Still Against Animal Testing is clearly hanging there to characterize the store. Sure, you could shop at those other bath and beauty product stores, but we're the one that is against animal testing. And this kind of made me angry because it's rather presumptuous to set yourself apart as the store that's against animal testing. How do you really know that all the other stores are lining up to club puppies and throw kittens against brick walls in the name of bath and beauty products? You don't. In fact, I think I would make it a point to shop specifically at a store that hung a sign reading: Still Believes In Animal Testing just because it's the unpopular position to take. Fuck, I would even tip every staff member at a store with a sign that read; So In Favor Of Animal Testing That You Can Come Right In And Test The Animals With Us Just For Shits And Giggles If You Want because places like that probably don't make a lot of money and if society is ever going to conquer the plague of corporate imperialism we have to start by supporting mom and pop opperations like Seal Clubbers Inc. and the Rabbit Eyeball Injections For No Apparent Reason Other Than We're Totally Fucking Insane Footwear Boutique And Buffet.
Finally, I came up with a edit for that sign that would have clarified things considerably: Still Against Animal Testing, But Still In Favor Of Deforestation To Make Stupid Fucking Signs To Make Our Moneylust Look Ethical. I suppose it's thinking like this that has kept me from being a successful entrepreneur.
And I suppose that if we chopped down all the forests to make stupid fucking signs to state the obvious then the animals that we're saving by not performing inhumane tests on them won't have any places to live, which means we'll have to keep them confined and overcrowded in cramped cages. If that's the case then we might as well just perform the stupid-ass tests because what the fuck else can we do with them taking up all that perfectly useful room in our cages?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The Return Of Placenta Chic
14 Days until 10,000 Days.
Reading Fark today I came across a couple of interesting articles with one thing in common: placentas.
First off, a story out of Hawaii. A couple is currently embroiled at odds with state officials over a law that prevents parents from getting the placenta from their children after the children are born. Apparently the law does not currently allow for parents to have the placenta. The couple in question wants to plant their newborn's placenta with a tree because it represents some sort of spiritual symmetry.
Plus it's been scientifically proven that there's no fertilizer like human placenta. It's an old farmers' trick of the trade, really. Everybody in agriculture knows that if you want high yield on your crops what you have to do is take a one ton truck down to the dumpster behind the hospital and load up on placentas because for some reason crops just love that shit. The first job I ever had, in fact, was placenta wrangler. Yep, those were some good profitable years, elbow deep in fleshy sacks. Yum.
But seriously, folks. Why the fuck is this even something that gets legislated? If I worked in a maternity ward and somebody wanted to keep their child's placenta I'd have no trouble with it whatsoever.
Say, mister, we have this kooky thing where we're making draperies for our apartment out of the placentas of all of our children. Do you think you could find it in your heart to let us have our baby's placenta so that we can carry on the tradition of having really smelly curtains that make people not want to visit us ever?
Sure, I was just going to throw it out into the dumpster out back for the placenta wranglers to have, what the fuck do I care if you want to take what is ultimately garbage to me?
But no, in Hawaii, they have legislate that kind of thing because somebody in that state really likes to collect placentas.
The lesson then is that if you're pregnant and you have some sort of plans to make a cardigan sweater out of your fetus' placenta, don't give birth in Hawaii. If you give birth in Hawaii and you're desperate for that placenta sweater you might want to log into eBay and start bidding like crazy because Hawaii sure as fuck isn't going to give you any placentas for free. They don't care who you are.
And then you have Tom Cruise. Now, most people, when they think Tom Cruise, they think picture of perfect mental health. In keeping with his spotless record of not looking like some sort of superfreak, Tom Cruise has stated that, as per the church of Scientology's rules about placentas and umbilical cords, he will eat the placenta and the umbilical cord of fiancee Katie Holmes' soon-to-arrive baby.
What does this have to do with anything?
Well, I bring this up as part of an elaborate entertainment news headline. Katie Holmes Will Not Be Giving Birth In Hawaii. Now that's a scoop, Entertainment Tonight! Take that!
Because, surely, if the state of Hawaii won't let you plant a placenta with a tree they probably won't let you douse it with ketchup and tartar sauce before chowing down on it either. So put away your fork, Tom, if you're planning on jetting your fiancee off to Hawaii for a Scientology sound birth process.
And don't even get me started on eating placenta. I may have been a placenta wrangler for many profittable years, but never once did the thought occur to me, "Damn, this shit would make a good casserole!"
Reading Fark today I came across a couple of interesting articles with one thing in common: placentas.
First off, a story out of Hawaii. A couple is currently embroiled at odds with state officials over a law that prevents parents from getting the placenta from their children after the children are born. Apparently the law does not currently allow for parents to have the placenta. The couple in question wants to plant their newborn's placenta with a tree because it represents some sort of spiritual symmetry.
Plus it's been scientifically proven that there's no fertilizer like human placenta. It's an old farmers' trick of the trade, really. Everybody in agriculture knows that if you want high yield on your crops what you have to do is take a one ton truck down to the dumpster behind the hospital and load up on placentas because for some reason crops just love that shit. The first job I ever had, in fact, was placenta wrangler. Yep, those were some good profitable years, elbow deep in fleshy sacks. Yum.
But seriously, folks. Why the fuck is this even something that gets legislated? If I worked in a maternity ward and somebody wanted to keep their child's placenta I'd have no trouble with it whatsoever.
Say, mister, we have this kooky thing where we're making draperies for our apartment out of the placentas of all of our children. Do you think you could find it in your heart to let us have our baby's placenta so that we can carry on the tradition of having really smelly curtains that make people not want to visit us ever?
Sure, I was just going to throw it out into the dumpster out back for the placenta wranglers to have, what the fuck do I care if you want to take what is ultimately garbage to me?
But no, in Hawaii, they have legislate that kind of thing because somebody in that state really likes to collect placentas.
The lesson then is that if you're pregnant and you have some sort of plans to make a cardigan sweater out of your fetus' placenta, don't give birth in Hawaii. If you give birth in Hawaii and you're desperate for that placenta sweater you might want to log into eBay and start bidding like crazy because Hawaii sure as fuck isn't going to give you any placentas for free. They don't care who you are.
And then you have Tom Cruise. Now, most people, when they think Tom Cruise, they think picture of perfect mental health. In keeping with his spotless record of not looking like some sort of superfreak, Tom Cruise has stated that, as per the church of Scientology's rules about placentas and umbilical cords, he will eat the placenta and the umbilical cord of fiancee Katie Holmes' soon-to-arrive baby.
What does this have to do with anything?
Well, I bring this up as part of an elaborate entertainment news headline. Katie Holmes Will Not Be Giving Birth In Hawaii. Now that's a scoop, Entertainment Tonight! Take that!
Because, surely, if the state of Hawaii won't let you plant a placenta with a tree they probably won't let you douse it with ketchup and tartar sauce before chowing down on it either. So put away your fork, Tom, if you're planning on jetting your fiancee off to Hawaii for a Scientology sound birth process.
And don't even get me started on eating placenta. I may have been a placenta wrangler for many profittable years, but never once did the thought occur to me, "Damn, this shit would make a good casserole!"
Monday, April 17, 2006
Finally The Proof That Religion's Been Waiting For
Before I begin, 15 days until 10,000 Days hits shelves
Click here.
I've broached the subject of religion before, but never with a lot of depth because it's a difficult subject to get into really. It's nothing short of enthralling watching the world evolve around scientific advances and seeing the evolution of religion to accomodate those scientific advances. Just when you think that religion has had the last nail driven into its coffin, they adapt their stories to keep themselves relevant to their followers. What's more is that organized religion is still a powerful force in this world despite all of the advances we have made as a species.
Anyway, enough bullshit. The big head-to-head battle in the world with regards to religion is spirituality versus science.
Now, for me, the big problem is that religion's heavyweight champion, the number one poster boy has never materialized to disprove science once and for all. What's odd is that God, the heavyweight champion I allude to, is omnipotent, all-powerful. If God wants to put the smackdown on his opponent it's no big deal, he just bats his eyelash, if deities have eyelashes, and kapowza, you're a corpse! All these years, though, science has been making with the trash talk and the God camp has been pretty much powerless to counterattack because God has never actually materialized long enough to say, "Hey bitches, stop talking smack before I turn your mamas into newts!"
So, then here it is. The WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment for the uninitiated, has plans for God to not only materialize, but for him to face WWE President Vince McMahon in a match.
What gets me, though, is that the religious leaders seem to be against the prospect of God stepping into the ring against Vince. You see, for years science has wanted proof that God exists. Well, there you go, assholes! He exists and he's going to kick Vince McMahon's ass! You'd think that anything that shows God as being capable of wrestling would be welcomed by the church. But nooooooo... Some guy could see a burn mark on a burrito that looks like Jesus if you tilt the burrito just right and the church is all over that saying that it's definitive proof of the the existence of God, but when God wants to beat up Vince McMahon suddenly it's sacreligious.
Is the church afraid that God can't beat up Vince McMahon? Could it be that wrestling is fake? Naw, that can't be it.
But here it is, folks. What I really want to say, if the people who write the storylines for wrestling want to have Vince wrestle God, what's the real big deal? If your god is going to smite anybody who makes a mockery of him what's it going to do to hurt you? In fact, if God did smite the wrestling writers for having him go toe-to-toe with Vince wouldn't it be a great way to say, "I told you so." Secondly, having been an avid viewer of pro wrestling for the better part of my life I can't see God's appearance being a regular thing. As a wrestler, God will probably go the way of the Gobbly Gooker (look it up if you must). 98% of sane people acknowledge that the goings-on in wrestling are scripted for entertainment purposes. Are you really concerned that those 2% of people who believe it's completely real are going to believe that Vince could take on a deity in a wrestling match? Are those 2% the kind of people you want to have in your religion? I didn't think so.
So just let them do what they want to do and if they get smited, roast some marshmallows over their burning carcasses.
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I've broached the subject of religion before, but never with a lot of depth because it's a difficult subject to get into really. It's nothing short of enthralling watching the world evolve around scientific advances and seeing the evolution of religion to accomodate those scientific advances. Just when you think that religion has had the last nail driven into its coffin, they adapt their stories to keep themselves relevant to their followers. What's more is that organized religion is still a powerful force in this world despite all of the advances we have made as a species.
Anyway, enough bullshit. The big head-to-head battle in the world with regards to religion is spirituality versus science.
Now, for me, the big problem is that religion's heavyweight champion, the number one poster boy has never materialized to disprove science once and for all. What's odd is that God, the heavyweight champion I allude to, is omnipotent, all-powerful. If God wants to put the smackdown on his opponent it's no big deal, he just bats his eyelash, if deities have eyelashes, and kapowza, you're a corpse! All these years, though, science has been making with the trash talk and the God camp has been pretty much powerless to counterattack because God has never actually materialized long enough to say, "Hey bitches, stop talking smack before I turn your mamas into newts!"
So, then here it is. The WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment for the uninitiated, has plans for God to not only materialize, but for him to face WWE President Vince McMahon in a match.
What gets me, though, is that the religious leaders seem to be against the prospect of God stepping into the ring against Vince. You see, for years science has wanted proof that God exists. Well, there you go, assholes! He exists and he's going to kick Vince McMahon's ass! You'd think that anything that shows God as being capable of wrestling would be welcomed by the church. But nooooooo... Some guy could see a burn mark on a burrito that looks like Jesus if you tilt the burrito just right and the church is all over that saying that it's definitive proof of the the existence of God, but when God wants to beat up Vince McMahon suddenly it's sacreligious.
Is the church afraid that God can't beat up Vince McMahon? Could it be that wrestling is fake? Naw, that can't be it.
But here it is, folks. What I really want to say, if the people who write the storylines for wrestling want to have Vince wrestle God, what's the real big deal? If your god is going to smite anybody who makes a mockery of him what's it going to do to hurt you? In fact, if God did smite the wrestling writers for having him go toe-to-toe with Vince wouldn't it be a great way to say, "I told you so." Secondly, having been an avid viewer of pro wrestling for the better part of my life I can't see God's appearance being a regular thing. As a wrestler, God will probably go the way of the Gobbly Gooker (look it up if you must). 98% of sane people acknowledge that the goings-on in wrestling are scripted for entertainment purposes. Are you really concerned that those 2% of people who believe it's completely real are going to believe that Vince could take on a deity in a wrestling match? Are those 2% the kind of people you want to have in your religion? I didn't think so.
So just let them do what they want to do and if they get smited, roast some marshmallows over their burning carcasses.
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