Tic Tacs, man. Fucking Tic Tacs.
For a while there was this thng that kind of upset me on the subject of Tic Tacs, but I could never quite put my finger on it. Recently, though, through an intense session of meditation and self-discovery, I finally arrived at that one intangible that was bothering me all these years.
And you know what it was? The two fucking calories per Tic Tac.
Every Tic Tac is two calories. Every Tic Tac is two calories.
I'll let that sink in for a minute.
Every Tic Tac is two calories.
Why in the living fuck would anybody give a shit?
I mean have you ever been out with your friends and you go to offer one of them a Tic Tac and they politely refuse your offer, saying, "Oh, no thank you, I simply can't allow myself to have one. I'm trying to watch my figure. Those two calories would go right to my hips." Have you? Seriously?
Think about it, you're there and you're probably just finished commenting, "Holy fuck, Jim, your breath smells like you just did a line of rimjobs for people with explosive diarrhea! Have a fucking Tic Tac before I have to vomit from having to talk to you!" And then, Jim, fresh from the rimjob factory, or wherever he works (he probably puts on a hardhat and safety goggles before work each day), has the nerve to say, "Thank you, but not thank you. If I eat one of those breath mints I'm liable to need new coveralls." In some cultures punching Jim in the face after hearing and smelling him say such a thing is not only perfectly acceptable, but also legally necessary.
And when you watch one of those daytime talkshows on the topic of human manatees, those people who are so morbidly obese that in order to get out the front doors of their houses they have to hire contractors, how many times have you seen the host of the show ask, "To what do you attribute your massive girth?" Then, while turkey legs and/or gravy seeps out from their massive jowels, they say, "Tic Tacs. Lots and lots of Tic Tacs. I could never have fresh enough breath." That never happens. You will never see that on a daytime talkshow. They could round up every one of those people who can no longer walk of their own volition and ask them that same question and I can guarantee you that not one of them will offer up Tic Tacs as the main culprit behind their planet-crushing size.
So then, bearing that in mind, why the fuck do the people who make Tic Tacs insist on mentioning in their commercials that there are only two calories to every Tic Tac? It's a moot point. Tic Tacs were never meant to be some kind of minty-fresh meal replacement. You don't go to fancy restaurants and order Tic Tacs off the healthy choices menu. They're fucking breath mints! You suck on them so that people don't pass out around you, suffocating, starving for air that doesn't smell like ass.
So, people out there who are going through the whole moral dilemma of whether or not you should have a Tic Tac because it might affect their weight and/or figure, fucking forget about it. Go hog fucking wild with the Tic Tacs. You probably burn two calories just sucking on the mint in the first place.
I mean who came up with that marketing scheme in the first place. "Hey Morty, you know what would be a great selling point for our line of breath mints? How low in calories they are!" Yep, because if there's one thing that people split hairs over when it comes to the right breath mint for them it's the fucking caloric intake.
I should develop my own line of breath mints that are just mint-flavored cubes of bacon fat. You know, for the people who want a healthy alternative to being so obsessive about counting calories.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Saturday, November 04, 2006
To The Men And Women Who Take Sex Offender Photos:
Click here.
I thought that I would bring this little story to your attention tonight because just before I logged into my blog to make a post I was checking my MySpace account to see what kind of action is happening down at everybody's favorite social networking site on the internet. So it seems appropriate. In more ways than it seems.
So anyway, the story I linked to revolves around a man in the U.S. somewhere (the article doesn't clarify where in the U.S. because why would anybody want to know the whereabouts of a registered sex offender?) got arrested after updating his MySpace profile to include his sex offender registry photo. So? you're probably thinking. Well, if you're a sex offender and you want to have a MySpace profile you have to register your internet ad for poon with the police.
My first reaction to reading this article is that he must have one fucking sweet-ass sex offender registry photo. I mean think about it, you could get a picture of yourself from anywhere. Paying to have photos digitized is rather cheap these days. Fuck, even buy digital cameras and or internet cams is cheap. You could have photos from just about anywhere, really. And this guy? Well, he thought that nothing says, "Come to poppa!" more than the photo that is on his file with the sex offender registry. Which either means this man is an huge fucking idiot or that the photographers at the sex offender registry are doing too good of a job when they are at work.
Okay, Mr. Sassy Sex Offender, there's this bad boy in you that I just know is waiting to come out for me. Have you ever done any modeling before? You look like you know your way around in front of the lens. Now, give me lots of attitude! Give me your "I'm a bad widdle boy" face! Ahhh, that's it! Brilliant! Now give me the sexy sex offender. The sex offender who's not afraid of what the man has to say about his sexual preferences. Wow! You're blowing me away! You surely must have done some modeling before this. Listen, I'm putting together a little photo exhibit, "The Sex Offenders of New York State" up on the internet and your shoot has to be up there! I simply must have you! You are just too hot!
So then after that photo shoot with the sex offender registry our guy goes home and decides to join the internet phenom MySpace and what better photo to have that really captures who he is than the photo from that Sex Offender exhibit? And then, boom, it's back to jail with him!
It kind of made me laugh actually.
But seriously, sex offender photographers out there, you don't have to pull of miracles with the pictures. They only have to say to me, "Don't have sex with this person." That's it. Obviously, you're going above and beyond the call of your duty and this man felt compelled to include your work with his MySpace profile. So just cut it out. Make it more utilitarian. Who would want to use some kind of mugshot for a MySpace profile? Just give us mugshots. That's it. Leave the artistic stuff to all the people who aren't sex offenders.
Why is this pertinent, though, you ask? Because I had a friend request in my MySpace queue tonight and the profile that requested me to be on another friends list was deleted before I could approve or deny the request. So Bubba, if it was you who was trying to add me and then the police deleted your account before I got to your request, I just wanted to personally say, sorry, but I can't accept the offer to join your friends list as it clashes with my anti-pedophilia philosophy.
I just thought I would let you know.
I thought that I would bring this little story to your attention tonight because just before I logged into my blog to make a post I was checking my MySpace account to see what kind of action is happening down at everybody's favorite social networking site on the internet. So it seems appropriate. In more ways than it seems.
So anyway, the story I linked to revolves around a man in the U.S. somewhere (the article doesn't clarify where in the U.S. because why would anybody want to know the whereabouts of a registered sex offender?) got arrested after updating his MySpace profile to include his sex offender registry photo. So? you're probably thinking. Well, if you're a sex offender and you want to have a MySpace profile you have to register your internet ad for poon with the police.
My first reaction to reading this article is that he must have one fucking sweet-ass sex offender registry photo. I mean think about it, you could get a picture of yourself from anywhere. Paying to have photos digitized is rather cheap these days. Fuck, even buy digital cameras and or internet cams is cheap. You could have photos from just about anywhere, really. And this guy? Well, he thought that nothing says, "Come to poppa!" more than the photo that is on his file with the sex offender registry. Which either means this man is an huge fucking idiot or that the photographers at the sex offender registry are doing too good of a job when they are at work.
Okay, Mr. Sassy Sex Offender, there's this bad boy in you that I just know is waiting to come out for me. Have you ever done any modeling before? You look like you know your way around in front of the lens. Now, give me lots of attitude! Give me your "I'm a bad widdle boy" face! Ahhh, that's it! Brilliant! Now give me the sexy sex offender. The sex offender who's not afraid of what the man has to say about his sexual preferences. Wow! You're blowing me away! You surely must have done some modeling before this. Listen, I'm putting together a little photo exhibit, "The Sex Offenders of New York State" up on the internet and your shoot has to be up there! I simply must have you! You are just too hot!
So then after that photo shoot with the sex offender registry our guy goes home and decides to join the internet phenom MySpace and what better photo to have that really captures who he is than the photo from that Sex Offender exhibit? And then, boom, it's back to jail with him!
It kind of made me laugh actually.
But seriously, sex offender photographers out there, you don't have to pull of miracles with the pictures. They only have to say to me, "Don't have sex with this person." That's it. Obviously, you're going above and beyond the call of your duty and this man felt compelled to include your work with his MySpace profile. So just cut it out. Make it more utilitarian. Who would want to use some kind of mugshot for a MySpace profile? Just give us mugshots. That's it. Leave the artistic stuff to all the people who aren't sex offenders.
Why is this pertinent, though, you ask? Because I had a friend request in my MySpace queue tonight and the profile that requested me to be on another friends list was deleted before I could approve or deny the request. So Bubba, if it was you who was trying to add me and then the police deleted your account before I got to your request, I just wanted to personally say, sorry, but I can't accept the offer to join your friends list as it clashes with my anti-pedophilia philosophy.
I just thought I would let you know.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Bottom Ten, October 2006
10.) Cyberbullies- Click here. If you read the linked article (it's quite short) you'll probably be alarmed by the growing trend of cyberbullying. What I like about the article is how they said, "Cyberspace bullies can strike from anywhere and can steal a child's pride instead of lunch money." Oh no, not my pride! Anything but that! Whatever will I do if my pride gets stolen? "While the act of bullying is nothing new, the cyberbully has certain advantages over the traditional bully." And, while the cyberbully gets to use people pride to buy things like shiny sports cars and big fancy boats....What? Wait, what do you mean, "Um, Michael, people's pride doesn't buy anything at all." Well, fuck me up the ass. You mean I just took out my very first mortgage using all that pride I horded from all those years spent in Internet Relay Chat making fun of sucka-fools and it's pretty much useless? Fuck!!! Damn you, technology! When will pride replace money as acceptable currency for big-ticket purchases? Never? Fuck you! Also, while the cyberbully enjoys "certain advantages" (conveniently, none of them are actually listed) they also suffer a horrible, horrible disadvantage when it comes to dealing with their bullying victims. Victims or cyberbullying, read this next part carefully. When you are confronted by a cyberbully there's a little X at the top right hand side of the window where your bully is attacking your from, if you click it he/she no longer has access to your precious, precious pride, which should leave you enough to take out a mortgage of your own....oh, wait, I forgot, your pride has no actual measured value. Damn you, internets!!!!
9.) Bob Barker's No-Nudity Clause- Click here. So most people have probably heard the news that soon-to-be-83-year-old Bob Barker, the cryptkeeper-like host of The Price Is Right is calling it a career.
He said he'd take on a movie role if the right one came along, but filmmakers, take note: "I refuse to do nude scenes. These Hollywood producers want to capitalize on my obvious sexuality, but I don't want to be just another beautiful body."
Obvious? Refusing to do nude scenes? Good luck trying to get work in the film industry, Bob. Gah!
8.) The Impractibility Of Bleach- Why can't somebody invent a bleach that will safely erase grotesque images from the brain without killing a guy?
7.) Really Bad Ideas- Click here.
6.) AMC Commercials- American Movie Classics channel has a great number of commercials featuring soundbites from random yahoos talking about all the various minutia they love from their favorite films. And I watch these commercials and I think, "Oh wow, I would love to watch these movies right now because, man, they sound so fucking awesome." Why is this on my Bottom Ten? American Movie Classics never play any of these movies that the people in the commercials are raving about! Fuck! They should just have a channel where people rave about movies 24/7 and have it be just an elaborate infomercial for Blockbuster where all these movies can be found as opposed to, say, the fucking channel airing the fucking commercials in the first place! They should end each of those commercials with, "Wouldn't it be cool to see one of these movies right now? Fuck you, asshole, you're going to watch whatever we feel like showing. You want to see 'Rushmore' right now? Go suck a dick because that won't be happening here, assface!"
5.) Oblivious People- Okay, you're in a parking lot and you've just started your car and you're getting ready to throw the car into reverse and you're going to get the fuck out, right? Wrong! Because some dipshit cruising through the lane behind you has spotted a friend of his on foot and has stopped to have a conversation with him, oblivious to the fact that his vehicle is boxing yours into its spot for the sake of his social life. Listen, dicklock, just give me a call, tell me what you need to say to your friend, I'll write it down in my blog for him and give it a title like, "Message to that random fuckface in the mall parking lot from his asshole friend who can't fathom the concept of there being vehicles in the public parking lot other than his own because obviously he is the fucking universe unto itself." That message reads: Yeah, so in case you missed my last voicemail to you, it's true, I'm still a retard.
4.) The Caramilk Mystery- After years and years of research, after having following clues to the four corners of the globe, after years of countless interviews, dead end searches in pornographic magazine warehouses, a nagging case of syphillis, three blood transfusions, a mild concussion, and leads that led nowhere, after all this, my crack team of researchers have finally discovered the mystery of how they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar. The answer: Who gives a fuck?
3.) Christmas Shopping- It's coming up on that time of year again and I have to admit that I actually like Christmas shopping. It's the fucking Christmas shoppers I can't fucking stand.
2.) The Death Of My Old Computer- Shopping for a new computer seems to occur with increasing frequency as years go by, which is perfectly understandable as computers go obsolete faster and faster. It just really sucks to have to set up a new computer just the way you like it. All those RSS feeds of porn are lost!
1.) And The Loss Of Data- I lost most of my digital photographs from the past four years too and that makes me want to cry. Not to mention all the great material that I culled to put together the Bottom Ten lists each month. I really had to patch this one together at the last minute because of the data loss. It's a fucking shame about those pictures though. The only photograph of my bare ass lost to the ether. Sigh.
9.) Bob Barker's No-Nudity Clause- Click here. So most people have probably heard the news that soon-to-be-83-year-old Bob Barker, the cryptkeeper-like host of The Price Is Right is calling it a career.
He said he'd take on a movie role if the right one came along, but filmmakers, take note: "I refuse to do nude scenes. These Hollywood producers want to capitalize on my obvious sexuality, but I don't want to be just another beautiful body."
Obvious? Refusing to do nude scenes? Good luck trying to get work in the film industry, Bob. Gah!
8.) The Impractibility Of Bleach- Why can't somebody invent a bleach that will safely erase grotesque images from the brain without killing a guy?
7.) Really Bad Ideas- Click here.
6.) AMC Commercials- American Movie Classics channel has a great number of commercials featuring soundbites from random yahoos talking about all the various minutia they love from their favorite films. And I watch these commercials and I think, "Oh wow, I would love to watch these movies right now because, man, they sound so fucking awesome." Why is this on my Bottom Ten? American Movie Classics never play any of these movies that the people in the commercials are raving about! Fuck! They should just have a channel where people rave about movies 24/7 and have it be just an elaborate infomercial for Blockbuster where all these movies can be found as opposed to, say, the fucking channel airing the fucking commercials in the first place! They should end each of those commercials with, "Wouldn't it be cool to see one of these movies right now? Fuck you, asshole, you're going to watch whatever we feel like showing. You want to see 'Rushmore' right now? Go suck a dick because that won't be happening here, assface!"
5.) Oblivious People- Okay, you're in a parking lot and you've just started your car and you're getting ready to throw the car into reverse and you're going to get the fuck out, right? Wrong! Because some dipshit cruising through the lane behind you has spotted a friend of his on foot and has stopped to have a conversation with him, oblivious to the fact that his vehicle is boxing yours into its spot for the sake of his social life. Listen, dicklock, just give me a call, tell me what you need to say to your friend, I'll write it down in my blog for him and give it a title like, "Message to that random fuckface in the mall parking lot from his asshole friend who can't fathom the concept of there being vehicles in the public parking lot other than his own because obviously he is the fucking universe unto itself." That message reads: Yeah, so in case you missed my last voicemail to you, it's true, I'm still a retard.
4.) The Caramilk Mystery- After years and years of research, after having following clues to the four corners of the globe, after years of countless interviews, dead end searches in pornographic magazine warehouses, a nagging case of syphillis, three blood transfusions, a mild concussion, and leads that led nowhere, after all this, my crack team of researchers have finally discovered the mystery of how they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar. The answer: Who gives a fuck?
3.) Christmas Shopping- It's coming up on that time of year again and I have to admit that I actually like Christmas shopping. It's the fucking Christmas shoppers I can't fucking stand.
2.) The Death Of My Old Computer- Shopping for a new computer seems to occur with increasing frequency as years go by, which is perfectly understandable as computers go obsolete faster and faster. It just really sucks to have to set up a new computer just the way you like it. All those RSS feeds of porn are lost!
1.) And The Loss Of Data- I lost most of my digital photographs from the past four years too and that makes me want to cry. Not to mention all the great material that I culled to put together the Bottom Ten lists each month. I really had to patch this one together at the last minute because of the data loss. It's a fucking shame about those pictures though. The only photograph of my bare ass lost to the ether. Sigh.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
The Tragically Hip's World Container
You knew this was going to be coming from me sooner or later. Many of you who know me personally out there know that I am a big fan of The Tragically Hip.
They're coming back to Edmonton to play a concert on January 14, by the way. Me? Row 31.
So anyway, that's not what I wanted to discuss. I didn't want to come online to brag about getting row 31 tickets to see The Tragically Hip in January. Truth be told, row 31 is not all that spectacular for a show at Rexall Place. It's good, but you're not going to win any medals for getting tickets for row 31. I got to see the Hip in a night club once. I should have got a medal for that one. But enough of this concert talk.
The new album by The Tragically Hip came out recently. It's called World Container. I would have done a review for you, my gentle readers, almost right after the fact had it not been for all of my recent computer problems, which you undoubtedly read about in my last post.
World Container is yet another strong outing by Canada's favorite band.
It's different then what listeners would come to expect from The Hip in recent offerings, though. The sound this time is a more concise rock record. There are more tracks here that a really indicative of a rock n' roll band's as opposed to a band fronted by an amazing poet. Don't get me wrong, the lyrics here are tremendous, "World Container" and "In View" are prime examples of that, but not in the way that the lyrics on In Violet Light or In Between Evolution are tremendous. Frontman Gord Downie, whom I am probably forever in debt to for almost literally making my head explode with lyrical appreciation over the years, doesn't canoodle the English language as much as he's done in the past, offering here a more sparse effort with his words, but it's more of an exercise in minimalizing than producer Bob Rock throttling the singer. I think that Bob Rock's production really sheds more light on the guitars of Paul Langlois and Rob Baker. Songs like "Family Band" and "The Drop Off" show off a couple of meaty riffs from Langlois that brought mind the old days of Up To Here.
So where does this sit in The Tragically Hip canon? I'm not entirely sure. I've listened to it a few times now and I can't decide entirely how it measures up to their previous efforts, especially In Violet Light and In Between Evolution. I think this is the kind of album that would win back any fans who have been alienated by the band's more esoteric direction with its latter albums, but it's not so straight-forward that the people who appreciated those colorful works could see it as a step backwards.
I guess I would have to say that this is the right album for them to do at this point. It's half way between old Hip and new Hip. It's calculated, laced with some really catchy songs and I don't think this could distance them from any of their fans, whether it's the arthouse crowd or the beer-swilling mullet-heads. And they might just get a few new fans (if there are any people who haven't heard them yet) to boot.
Thumbs up indeed.
See you in January.
What we have here are all flaws in progress
where all songs are one song and
that song is, DON'T FORGET
-Gordon Downie
"World Container"
Some Housekeeping Notes
First off, I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. Has it been 10 days since my last post? Already? Wow. Time flies when everything is fucking up around you.
So for those of you who aren't in the know, my computer passed away suddenly and tragically just over a week ago. On Tuesday I finally got a new computer and since Tuesday I've been spending my free time getting my new computer set up just right. I'll be getting back to posting on my blog with some regularity very soon.
Aside from that you should head down to the Raving Poets website regarding news about our imminent return to rock Edmonton down to its foundation. Starting Wednesday, November 1, and going on every Wednesday night in the month of November, the Raving Poets will be doing a new series of readings: Five Wednesdays One November. It takes place at Yianni's Taverna, Kazbar Lounge (10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton) kicking off at 8:00 p.m. each time. It promises to be a hell of a series because I'm sure I'm not the only Raving Poet who has had some time to put together a whole arsenal of ass-kicking, donkey-punching, mule-throttling work. Expect blood.
Now that I'm back, let me just say that it's great to be back. I think that I might one of those people with an internet addiction problems. I had the shakes bad. Now begins the morphine drip of my life.
So for those of you who aren't in the know, my computer passed away suddenly and tragically just over a week ago. On Tuesday I finally got a new computer and since Tuesday I've been spending my free time getting my new computer set up just right. I'll be getting back to posting on my blog with some regularity very soon.
Aside from that you should head down to the Raving Poets website regarding news about our imminent return to rock Edmonton down to its foundation. Starting Wednesday, November 1, and going on every Wednesday night in the month of November, the Raving Poets will be doing a new series of readings: Five Wednesdays One November. It takes place at Yianni's Taverna, Kazbar Lounge (10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton) kicking off at 8:00 p.m. each time. It promises to be a hell of a series because I'm sure I'm not the only Raving Poet who has had some time to put together a whole arsenal of ass-kicking, donkey-punching, mule-throttling work. Expect blood.
Now that I'm back, let me just say that it's great to be back. I think that I might one of those people with an internet addiction problems. I had the shakes bad. Now begins the morphine drip of my life.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Party With Britney And K-Fed On Halloween
Click here.
lYke OMG doodz, i'm So toTTally goin ta win dis conTest, yo! Gettin mY PartEE on wid Bee-Ritney and K-Fed on HallOween wood Make me da c00lest, yo! Partyin it up double-wide style, boyz!*
*I apologize for this brief, momentary lapse of character on my part. I read an article about how Britney Spears is asking people to whore her husband's attempt at music out to innocent friends and families (a fucking crime against humanity if ever one existed) with the promise of getting to party with Mr. and Mrs. Spears on Halloween in yon double-wide mansion and something just snapped in me.
We now return you to your normally sane and humble narrator.
Although one of those gaudy medallions would be really sweet. Okay, just one of you do me a favor and buy his stupid CD for idiots so that I have enough sales attributed to me to qualify for one of his replica medallions. I've always wanted to look like an upper-class white boy co-opting a culture I not possibly be any further removed from and a replica K-Fed medallion would be the coup-de-grace for my transformation.
lYke OMG doodz, i'm So toTTally goin ta win dis conTest, yo! Gettin mY PartEE on wid Bee-Ritney and K-Fed on HallOween wood Make me da c00lest, yo! Partyin it up double-wide style, boyz!*
*I apologize for this brief, momentary lapse of character on my part. I read an article about how Britney Spears is asking people to whore her husband's attempt at music out to innocent friends and families (a fucking crime against humanity if ever one existed) with the promise of getting to party with Mr. and Mrs. Spears on Halloween in yon double-wide mansion and something just snapped in me.
We now return you to your normally sane and humble narrator.
Although one of those gaudy medallions would be really sweet. Okay, just one of you do me a favor and buy his stupid CD for idiots so that I have enough sales attributed to me to qualify for one of his replica medallions. I've always wanted to look like an upper-class white boy co-opting a culture I not possibly be any further removed from and a replica K-Fed medallion would be the coup-de-grace for my transformation.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
On Newstands Everywhere
So today I was at Bonnie Doon Mall (shout out to all my Boonie Doonies out dere, hellz ya!) and I stopped by at the Coles Bookstore where I noticed the latest issue of Wired on their magazine rack. Since I have become a regular reader of Wired I had to buy it. That's what regular readers of magazines do.
And you know what.
The first letter in the Rants+Raves section of the current issue (October, 2006) is by yours truly. Holy fucking shit!
Sorry, you get your name anywhere in a publication that goes around the world and suddenly you're Tom fucking Cruise. Well, not really. But if you are interested in reading the letter you can buy the October, 2006 issue of Wired (I'll even autograph it for you for a nominal fee, except you Bonnie Doonies out there, hellz ya!) Or, if you don't read Wired you can check out the letter free of charge here.
And you know what.
The first letter in the Rants+Raves section of the current issue (October, 2006) is by yours truly. Holy fucking shit!
Sorry, you get your name anywhere in a publication that goes around the world and suddenly you're Tom fucking Cruise. Well, not really. But if you are interested in reading the letter you can buy the October, 2006 issue of Wired (I'll even autograph it for you for a nominal fee, except you Bonnie Doonies out there, hellz ya!) Or, if you don't read Wired you can check out the letter free of charge here.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Baby Papa Drama
Click here.
In what can only be described as surreal, two men have stepped up to the plate so far claiming to be the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby with a third man claiming to have been asked to be the willing (or unwilling) sperm donor. Naturally, these men are all being portrayed as men after 15 minutes of fame by the website I linked to for the article.
And you know what? That's fucking stupid.
Why is that stupid, Michael? Don't you think that the average guy could look at the unknown identity of the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby and see an opportunity to get a bit of notoriety at least for a little while?
Of course I think that. I just think it's fucking stupid.
Okay, so you have two guys stepping up to the plate on this one so far. Do you know what that means? One of these guys might very well have received the other's sloppy seconds. Think about it, only one of these guys could have had sex with Anna Nicole Smith first, that means that the other would have had to have had sex with her after the first guy. Now, since they both obviously had sex (allegedly) with her around the time that her little bundle of headline-seeking attention was conceived, one guy may very well have had the other guy's sloppy seconds.
And I think that's how the headlines should read from now just so that the media discourages any further men who think of claiming to have had sex with her just for the fame of being able to say that they had sex with a washed-up celebrity. I can almost read that headline now:
SOME ASSHAT HAD ANOTHER ASSHAT'S SLOPPY SECONDS WITH ANNA NICOLE SMITH:
HOLLYWOOD STUNNED BY THE REVELATION THAT ANNA NICOLE SMITH MAY HAVE HAD SEX WITH MORE THAN ONE MAN IN HER LIFETIME!
Although, you know? Maybe getting some fame now isn't such a bad thing. I could use some fame to really launch myself into that writing career I've always wanted. Publishers may be clamoring over each other to hand out book deals to these asshats and I'm missing out.
Maybe the best way for me to become an author is to step forth and claim responsibility for Anna Nicole Smith reproducing.
In what can only be described as surreal, two men have stepped up to the plate so far claiming to be the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby with a third man claiming to have been asked to be the willing (or unwilling) sperm donor. Naturally, these men are all being portrayed as men after 15 minutes of fame by the website I linked to for the article.
And you know what? That's fucking stupid.
Why is that stupid, Michael? Don't you think that the average guy could look at the unknown identity of the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby and see an opportunity to get a bit of notoriety at least for a little while?
Of course I think that. I just think it's fucking stupid.
Okay, so you have two guys stepping up to the plate on this one so far. Do you know what that means? One of these guys might very well have received the other's sloppy seconds. Think about it, only one of these guys could have had sex with Anna Nicole Smith first, that means that the other would have had to have had sex with her after the first guy. Now, since they both obviously had sex (allegedly) with her around the time that her little bundle of headline-seeking attention was conceived, one guy may very well have had the other guy's sloppy seconds.
And I think that's how the headlines should read from now just so that the media discourages any further men who think of claiming to have had sex with her just for the fame of being able to say that they had sex with a washed-up celebrity. I can almost read that headline now:
SOME ASSHAT HAD ANOTHER ASSHAT'S SLOPPY SECONDS WITH ANNA NICOLE SMITH:
HOLLYWOOD STUNNED BY THE REVELATION THAT ANNA NICOLE SMITH MAY HAVE HAD SEX WITH MORE THAN ONE MAN IN HER LIFETIME!
Although, you know? Maybe getting some fame now isn't such a bad thing. I could use some fame to really launch myself into that writing career I've always wanted. Publishers may be clamoring over each other to hand out book deals to these asshats and I'm missing out.
Maybe the best way for me to become an author is to step forth and claim responsibility for Anna Nicole Smith reproducing.
Album Cover Wars
Once again the fine folks at dailysixer have posted a video that I really want to bring to your attention because it's pretty cool. How many of the albums in this video can you name? Better yet, how many from the video do you have in your own collection?
Friday, October 06, 2006
The Calgary Misadventure
So you might be wondering why it's taken me until now to finally post something about my trip down to Calgary this week to participate in the Red Mile Revenge reading for October.
Well, to put it quite simply, the whole Calgary trip turned into somewhat of a misadventure. Now don't get me wrong because now that the misadventure is over I would have to say that I would not have changed anything about the trip at all. It was an experience.
Before I set out on the road Tuesday I thought it would benefit the driving if I were to swing by the local A&B Sound store and get some road music. I ended spending just over a hundred bucks on CDs. I'll probably be mentioning some of these new albums for my library before long, but in a quick summary sort of way I ended up buying music by The Killers, Queens Of The Stone Age, Beck, Broken Social Scene, The Dears, and TV On The Radio. When it came time to pay for everything I couldn't get my debit card to work properly so I decided to use my credit card instead. This detail plays a part in my story later on so make a note of it.
The drive down to Calgary was great. I grooved to the new Killer disc, stopped in Red Deer for dinner, and got to Calgary in what seemed like little or no time at all. In fact, the drive down was so good that it made me really look forward to the drive back, which I was going to be making at night when the Queen Elizabeth II Highway would be dead.
As per a visit I made to MapQuest before I left Edmonton my route through Calgary to my reading would involve driving south on the Deerfoot until I hit 17 Ave, where I would turn right and pretty much head straight to my venue. Little did I know that just giving a brief look at a road map is not the same thing as actually looking at it for longer than two seconds. I would have seen that the exit I chose really just led to a maze of roads passing through industrial areas, not nearly the straight line I thought I saw on the map beforehand. So after a number of random turns I found myself at the entrance to Stampede Park. And then...
My car broke down.
And I couldn't get it started again.
This was when I first saw how friendly the people of Calgary are. Not long after trying and retrying to get my car started again, a woman from the line next to mine at the gate offered to give me a push out of the way, which I took her up on because I was growing ever more embarassed by the sorry state of my car. The woman at the gate called the park tow truck driver over to take a look at my car to see what could be done for me.
The park tow truck driver looked and couldn't figure out exactly what was wrong with my car, only that he couldn't smell any fuel getting to the engine. His guess was that it was probably a problem with my fuel pump and that maybe letting the car sit for a while would benefit it enough to get it running again later. With the time that I had to wait I could actually go do my reading, but I would need a cab to get there.
I called a cab and it turned out that the venue was actually within walking distance from Stampede Park. I guess I wasn't that lost after all. Anyway, the reading went well. It was a smaller audience than some of my readings, but holy shit was Victoria's Restaurant a nice venue. And the food? Excellent. Wow! I think that if the Raving Poets ever hit the road for a one-off show in Cowtown we should really do it at Victoria's because that place totally rocked. For the reading I brought out "The Clifford Brown Downtown Scope", "Marionettes", which I dedicated to Selina Clary even though she couldn't make it down to the show, "Spectator Sport", and I closed with "Vitriol", a poem I had yet to perform for the people of Calgary for fear of being lynched.
Then after the show everything went surreal.
I got back to my car and tried it, hoping that the down time would have done a world of wonder for it. No such luck. The car still wouldn't start. So I called my uncle Keith, the only Calgarian mechanic I know personally. He said that I could tow the car to his shop and he would look at it in the morning. My aunt Tharon and uncle Keith offered to put me up for the night since it looked like I was stranded, but I really hate being more of a bother than I already am and uncle Keith was already doing more than what I required of him by offering to look at my car so I declined their offer and told them I would seek a hotel once the car was towed.
Second lesson in how friendly Calgarians are: my tow truck driver that night was Larry. He was very forthright with what was best for towing my car and along the way to where the shop was he pointed out all the points of interest in Calgary and we got to talking about the economic situation in Alberta was like, our war stories from our respective jobs, etc. etc. And then when we got the car to the shop where my uncle Keith works it came time to pay and it turned out that my credit card didn't have enough credit left on it to cover the entire tow. Stupid CD shopping binge! So Larry asked me how much cash I had on me and I still had sixty bucks kicking around in my wallet so we tried the credit card again, this time sixty dollars less and it worked!
Now the problem was that I was on the outskirts of Calgary with no money, a broke-down car, and no transportation to get me to some sort of lodging for the night. My plan was to basically spend the next hour or two walking back into town and to shelter. Larry, though, offered to give me a lift on his way back in because he knew that he would be passing by numerous hotels since his route back was right by the airport. So he drove me to the Sandman Inn.
At the Sandman the desk clerk asked me for my credit card so that I could get a room. I explained to her that my credit card had recently been sapped by a tow truck and my own CD-buying stupidity. She told me that it was fine if I paid up front with my debit card. Do you remember why I had to buy my CDs with my credit card in the first place? Yes, you guessed it, my debit card is a piece of shit. The desk clerk tried and tried, but could not get it to work. I asked where a bank machine might be so that I could just get some cash for the room because I had plenty of cash, albeit in my bank account. She told me that the nearest bank machine was a long way away in the Calgary airport. Then she decided to try the old trick of putting tape on the debit car stripe to make it work. And it worked. Oh yes, thank you Buddha for that one.
So I got myself a room, an expensive room because it was the only one left, a two bed smoking suite. And I tried to wind down, but I couldn't sleep at all because I began to worry that the car repairs would be more expensive than what I could afford. I was also worried that I was imposing too much on my uncle Keith. I was also worried about the cat that I was supposed to be looking after for my friend Nadine while she's on vacation. All this worrying meant that I could only sleep soundly for as much as one hour.
When I got up I checked out of the hotel quicker than any human being has ever checked out of a hotel (call me Guiness Book of World Records, seriously). I had a hike ahead of me. I had to find cash somewhere. So I walked from my hotel on Barlow Trail and McKnight all the way to 32 Avenue and 36 Street. I'm not 100% sure on those coordinates as I am a tourist in Calgary even at the best of times. It was a long walk that's all I know. It was probably three miles or so to where I finally found a bank machine and I took out a large wad of cash just to be safe. I then called a cab to take me to my uncle Keith's shop.
Once at the shop it turned out that the repair to my car was indeed the aforementioned fuel pump, which on my car is a rather simple repair. I apparently still had the original (and 30-year-old) fuel pump on my car so I can't really be upset at fate for making that part fail me at last. It took a few hours, but my uncle Keith and his coworkers got me on the road again for a very small fee compared to what I would have paid at some shop where people see suckers born every minute.
The drive back home was scary at best. Because of my lack of sleep I really found myself nodding off behind the wheel as I was getting closer and closer to Red Deer. When I got to Red Deer I was very tempted to just put down 60 bucks on getting a room at this motel that I passed just so that I could get enough sleep to make the rest of the trip back to Edmonton. After eating lunch, though, I found myself rejuvenated enough to make it back, though to ensure I stayed awake I put on some hard-rocking Queens Of The Stone Age and made sure to sing all the way back to E-Town.
Finally I got back home after all the walking, lack of sleep, lack of cash, and adventuring, and misadveturing, and it was 3:00 in the afternoon and I was just going to climb into bed and sleep because I didn't have to be at work until Thursday night.
But that wasn't to be because two hours after falling asleep I was called into work.
So I really didn't get much sleep until this morning. And now I finally have a day off and I don't intend to do anything but host a poker game and a hockey draft later tonight.
I'm glad the misadventure is over, but damn it was fun when everything was done. Thank you, Calgary, you restored my faith in humanity.
I'm almost wondering when the next time I'll be down the Cowtown way will be because I actually kind of miss it.
Well, to put it quite simply, the whole Calgary trip turned into somewhat of a misadventure. Now don't get me wrong because now that the misadventure is over I would have to say that I would not have changed anything about the trip at all. It was an experience.
Before I set out on the road Tuesday I thought it would benefit the driving if I were to swing by the local A&B Sound store and get some road music. I ended spending just over a hundred bucks on CDs. I'll probably be mentioning some of these new albums for my library before long, but in a quick summary sort of way I ended up buying music by The Killers, Queens Of The Stone Age, Beck, Broken Social Scene, The Dears, and TV On The Radio. When it came time to pay for everything I couldn't get my debit card to work properly so I decided to use my credit card instead. This detail plays a part in my story later on so make a note of it.
The drive down to Calgary was great. I grooved to the new Killer disc, stopped in Red Deer for dinner, and got to Calgary in what seemed like little or no time at all. In fact, the drive down was so good that it made me really look forward to the drive back, which I was going to be making at night when the Queen Elizabeth II Highway would be dead.
As per a visit I made to MapQuest before I left Edmonton my route through Calgary to my reading would involve driving south on the Deerfoot until I hit 17 Ave, where I would turn right and pretty much head straight to my venue. Little did I know that just giving a brief look at a road map is not the same thing as actually looking at it for longer than two seconds. I would have seen that the exit I chose really just led to a maze of roads passing through industrial areas, not nearly the straight line I thought I saw on the map beforehand. So after a number of random turns I found myself at the entrance to Stampede Park. And then...
My car broke down.
And I couldn't get it started again.
This was when I first saw how friendly the people of Calgary are. Not long after trying and retrying to get my car started again, a woman from the line next to mine at the gate offered to give me a push out of the way, which I took her up on because I was growing ever more embarassed by the sorry state of my car. The woman at the gate called the park tow truck driver over to take a look at my car to see what could be done for me.
The park tow truck driver looked and couldn't figure out exactly what was wrong with my car, only that he couldn't smell any fuel getting to the engine. His guess was that it was probably a problem with my fuel pump and that maybe letting the car sit for a while would benefit it enough to get it running again later. With the time that I had to wait I could actually go do my reading, but I would need a cab to get there.
I called a cab and it turned out that the venue was actually within walking distance from Stampede Park. I guess I wasn't that lost after all. Anyway, the reading went well. It was a smaller audience than some of my readings, but holy shit was Victoria's Restaurant a nice venue. And the food? Excellent. Wow! I think that if the Raving Poets ever hit the road for a one-off show in Cowtown we should really do it at Victoria's because that place totally rocked. For the reading I brought out "The Clifford Brown Downtown Scope", "Marionettes", which I dedicated to Selina Clary even though she couldn't make it down to the show, "Spectator Sport", and I closed with "Vitriol", a poem I had yet to perform for the people of Calgary for fear of being lynched.
Then after the show everything went surreal.
I got back to my car and tried it, hoping that the down time would have done a world of wonder for it. No such luck. The car still wouldn't start. So I called my uncle Keith, the only Calgarian mechanic I know personally. He said that I could tow the car to his shop and he would look at it in the morning. My aunt Tharon and uncle Keith offered to put me up for the night since it looked like I was stranded, but I really hate being more of a bother than I already am and uncle Keith was already doing more than what I required of him by offering to look at my car so I declined their offer and told them I would seek a hotel once the car was towed.
Second lesson in how friendly Calgarians are: my tow truck driver that night was Larry. He was very forthright with what was best for towing my car and along the way to where the shop was he pointed out all the points of interest in Calgary and we got to talking about the economic situation in Alberta was like, our war stories from our respective jobs, etc. etc. And then when we got the car to the shop where my uncle Keith works it came time to pay and it turned out that my credit card didn't have enough credit left on it to cover the entire tow. Stupid CD shopping binge! So Larry asked me how much cash I had on me and I still had sixty bucks kicking around in my wallet so we tried the credit card again, this time sixty dollars less and it worked!
Now the problem was that I was on the outskirts of Calgary with no money, a broke-down car, and no transportation to get me to some sort of lodging for the night. My plan was to basically spend the next hour or two walking back into town and to shelter. Larry, though, offered to give me a lift on his way back in because he knew that he would be passing by numerous hotels since his route back was right by the airport. So he drove me to the Sandman Inn.
At the Sandman the desk clerk asked me for my credit card so that I could get a room. I explained to her that my credit card had recently been sapped by a tow truck and my own CD-buying stupidity. She told me that it was fine if I paid up front with my debit card. Do you remember why I had to buy my CDs with my credit card in the first place? Yes, you guessed it, my debit card is a piece of shit. The desk clerk tried and tried, but could not get it to work. I asked where a bank machine might be so that I could just get some cash for the room because I had plenty of cash, albeit in my bank account. She told me that the nearest bank machine was a long way away in the Calgary airport. Then she decided to try the old trick of putting tape on the debit car stripe to make it work. And it worked. Oh yes, thank you Buddha for that one.
So I got myself a room, an expensive room because it was the only one left, a two bed smoking suite. And I tried to wind down, but I couldn't sleep at all because I began to worry that the car repairs would be more expensive than what I could afford. I was also worried that I was imposing too much on my uncle Keith. I was also worried about the cat that I was supposed to be looking after for my friend Nadine while she's on vacation. All this worrying meant that I could only sleep soundly for as much as one hour.
When I got up I checked out of the hotel quicker than any human being has ever checked out of a hotel (call me Guiness Book of World Records, seriously). I had a hike ahead of me. I had to find cash somewhere. So I walked from my hotel on Barlow Trail and McKnight all the way to 32 Avenue and 36 Street. I'm not 100% sure on those coordinates as I am a tourist in Calgary even at the best of times. It was a long walk that's all I know. It was probably three miles or so to where I finally found a bank machine and I took out a large wad of cash just to be safe. I then called a cab to take me to my uncle Keith's shop.
Once at the shop it turned out that the repair to my car was indeed the aforementioned fuel pump, which on my car is a rather simple repair. I apparently still had the original (and 30-year-old) fuel pump on my car so I can't really be upset at fate for making that part fail me at last. It took a few hours, but my uncle Keith and his coworkers got me on the road again for a very small fee compared to what I would have paid at some shop where people see suckers born every minute.
The drive back home was scary at best. Because of my lack of sleep I really found myself nodding off behind the wheel as I was getting closer and closer to Red Deer. When I got to Red Deer I was very tempted to just put down 60 bucks on getting a room at this motel that I passed just so that I could get enough sleep to make the rest of the trip back to Edmonton. After eating lunch, though, I found myself rejuvenated enough to make it back, though to ensure I stayed awake I put on some hard-rocking Queens Of The Stone Age and made sure to sing all the way back to E-Town.
Finally I got back home after all the walking, lack of sleep, lack of cash, and adventuring, and misadveturing, and it was 3:00 in the afternoon and I was just going to climb into bed and sleep because I didn't have to be at work until Thursday night.
But that wasn't to be because two hours after falling asleep I was called into work.
So I really didn't get much sleep until this morning. And now I finally have a day off and I don't intend to do anything but host a poker game and a hockey draft later tonight.
I'm glad the misadventure is over, but damn it was fun when everything was done. Thank you, Calgary, you restored my faith in humanity.
I'm almost wondering when the next time I'll be down the Cowtown way will be because I actually kind of miss it.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Brief Transmission
So today I have a day off of work (thank fucking god, let me tell you, with how things have been going at work lately) and today also happens to be the day that my friend Selina Clary puts on her regular monthly poetry reading in Calgary, The Red Mile Revenge. So I have a day off of work and there's a poetry reading in Calgary. If you put two and two together you must be able to figure out that today I'm taking a road trip down to Cowtown to participate in the Red Mile Revenge.
The show takes place at Victoria's Bistro And Bar (306 17 Avenue SW, Calgary) tonight (October 3, 2006) at 8:00 p.m. So if you are in Calgary and you want to come out to hear some killer poetry by me stop on by. Hell, even if you just want to hear some killer poetry in general and you happen to be in Calgary you should check out the RMR show happening tonight.
See you there!
The show takes place at Victoria's Bistro And Bar (306 17 Avenue SW, Calgary) tonight (October 3, 2006) at 8:00 p.m. So if you are in Calgary and you want to come out to hear some killer poetry by me stop on by. Hell, even if you just want to hear some killer poetry in general and you happen to be in Calgary you should check out the RMR show happening tonight.
See you there!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Bottom Ten, September 2006
10.) The Royal Family- I was watching one of those shows that listed the biggest heirs and heiresses in England and, of course, Prince William was named at number 1 because the royals are worth something in the neighborhood of 10 billion dollars. My reaction: Why? I mean, okay, I can see the family being worth that much through years of sound investments and proper financial planning, but I know that a good chunk of that fortune stems from the fact that somebody, somewhere attaches some sort of relevance to the notion of a royal family. How the fuck are these people still relevant? Can anybody tell me? I'm at a loss. The t.v. show that I was watching also made a huge point over how one day William will be King of England. Big fucking deal, asshole. It's too bad nobody really for real thinks that generations of inbreeding is grounds enough for giving you some real political power.
9.) The Conservative Knee-Jerk Reaction- Click here. In Frisco, Texas an art teacher basically lost her job because one of her students saw a nude sculpture during a field trip to a museum. Oh my god, no!!! Not a nude sculpture in a museum! Holy fuck! Who in their right fucking heads would dare put a sculpture of the naked human form in a museum? Somebody might see a schlong! Or...gasp! Titties! Oh merciful fucking heaven to mergatroid (or however the fuck you spell mergatroid)! Seriously, you fucking hillbillies, is the naked body such a crime in the art world that you could lose your job over a child seeing it? If that is truly the case then shouldn't parents be reprimanded for having mirrors in their homes where children might, gasp!, stare at their own genitalia? I pity the generation that's growing up so sheltered that they have no fucking clue what a schlong is only that it's the tool of Satan and all that is unholy.
8.) The Stork- Those same conservative parents are raising that generation of children to believe that the stork delivers the babies in the night. Just wait until the liberal post-secondary education system gets ahold of them and they flunk because they answer on exams that the purpose of the vagina (they call it the Hoo-Haw Hole or some other asinine name because "vagina" is a swear word) is to make potty and only potty. Anyway, my beef with the stork is that it's just a fucking shitty bird. Of all the things that the conservative right could come up with that magically dieliver babies in the still of the night they had to go with a fucking shit-machine white bird while Christmas gets Santa Claus, Easter gets an egg-laying bunny rabbit, and teeth get taken away by a fucking fairy. I suppose that you've pretty much exhausted the limits of the imagination with all that other shit so a fucking bird carrying babies is all that's left. What a fucking bunch of arbitrary bullshit. A man shoving his cock in some woman's cooch and nine months later a baby popping out sounds a whole bunch more miraculous than some fucking bird that probably shits on people's windshields as it makes deliveries. Fucking birds.
7.) Cross-Promotion Bullshit- Click here. Ahhhhh, Martha Stewart, where you have been lately? My bottom ten lists got lonely without your cold, evil overlord kind of embrace. What now, you ask? Well, Martha Stewart has openly invited Eminem to appear on her show because Martha and her cult are more into the music of Eminem than you would believe. I'll let that sink in for a moment. Do you think that this is an attempt on Martha's part to gain some sort of street cred, branching her appeal into the world of rap, or an invitation to Eminem to branch his appeal into the world of banal domestic divas? Probably a little from column A and a little from column B. I hope that this invitation is decline, or better yet, not even acknowledged because I fucking hate every one of Martha's publicity stunts. Although, she did serve time for being a fucking evil icon or something, maybe she gained an appreciation for rap music while being brutalized in pound-you-in-the-ass prison.
6.) Using The Word 'Diva' To Describe Anything- I should really punch myself in the balls for using that fucking word for anything other than complaining about people who use that word or try to make it some sort of label by which they live their lives. I'm a diva. You're a diva. We're divas! Fuck you! What the fuck is a diva? Seriously. It's just some amorphous, vague jargon that gets thrown around to justify prissy behavior and it's fucking time that people grew up and started taking responsibility for their actions. I demand Perrier Water because I'm a diva and I will be treated accordingly. You demand Perrier Water because you're fucking stuck-up and you have a disproportionately large ego. If you put it like that I might get you a fucking Perrier just to shut you up.
5.) Feuding Pop Princesses- Click here. Britney and Christina have finally settled one of the bloodiest, most violent feuds in pop music history. Indeed, their spat was one of the darkest chapters in modern history and will be long remembered by future generations. What did it take to finally settle this deadly conflict? A fucking crockery set? How the fuck did one attention whore buying another attention whore a fucking crockery set get deemed as newsworthy? Fucking crockery sets don't settle disputes; they don't settle shit; they only make crocks (whatever the fuck those are). Only fistfights and/or lesbian make-out sessions end feuds.
4.) K-Fed- You know what? I'm K-Fed up with with fucking douchebag. Oh, stop groaning, that was fucking pun gold! Click here. So while Britney and Christina attempt some sort of reconciliation over crock (whatever the fuck that is) K-Fed is out and about fostering brand new feuds with many of today's brightest stars by giving the songs off of his soon-to-be-released album titles that are the same titles as songs by other artists. All this because there's a possibility that people will confuse his songs for the songs by those other artists (which are undoubtedly better due to their %100 less K-Fed involvement) when they do things like download tracks off of iTunes. I guess it's sort of fitting that anybody dumb enough not to check who sings a song before they download it off of iTunes deserves to get to hear K-Fed sing.
3.) Spelling "Thanks" With An "X" At The End- Congratulations assholes, you managed to save yourself the time and effort of having to write that whole one extra letter. How the fuck are you not in NASA with such mental prowess as to say, Hey, you know, "-ks" sounds a lot like the sound that the "x" makes. Holy fucking shit! I could just change the "ks" to an "x" and people will still understand and I will look like a total fucking genius because I was able to economize my time. So tell me, genius, what are you going to do with that 0.00056 seconds you just saved with your clever respelling? Oh that's right, 0.00056 seconds isn't even enough time to let out a juicy fart.
2.) DVD Cases That Are Sold With More Than One 'Security Device Enclosed' Sticker On Them- The message behind 'Security Device Enclosed' is straight-forward enough for me that it only takes one sticker to convey it. Why the fuck would you put three of those annoyances on your packaging? Any real crimnal knows that the security device is in the packaging and not on the DVD itself so why not just steal the disc and leave its sticker-riddled packaging on the shelf? Instead you cover all the opening edges with the your stupidity and make legitimate consumers have to work to see your fucking piece-of-shit movies. Bravo.
1.) "London Bridge" By: Fergie- What a fucking terrible song! I know you're kind of expecting me to say something funny because I am a bit of a joke-monkey sometimes, but seriously, that song finds a way to transcend the art of sucking and manages to suck so hard that it implodes on itself almost to the point where I can listen to "My Humps" without vomiting out of ass. That's suck.
9.) The Conservative Knee-Jerk Reaction- Click here. In Frisco, Texas an art teacher basically lost her job because one of her students saw a nude sculpture during a field trip to a museum. Oh my god, no!!! Not a nude sculpture in a museum! Holy fuck! Who in their right fucking heads would dare put a sculpture of the naked human form in a museum? Somebody might see a schlong! Or...gasp! Titties! Oh merciful fucking heaven to mergatroid (or however the fuck you spell mergatroid)! Seriously, you fucking hillbillies, is the naked body such a crime in the art world that you could lose your job over a child seeing it? If that is truly the case then shouldn't parents be reprimanded for having mirrors in their homes where children might, gasp!, stare at their own genitalia? I pity the generation that's growing up so sheltered that they have no fucking clue what a schlong is only that it's the tool of Satan and all that is unholy.
8.) The Stork- Those same conservative parents are raising that generation of children to believe that the stork delivers the babies in the night. Just wait until the liberal post-secondary education system gets ahold of them and they flunk because they answer on exams that the purpose of the vagina (they call it the Hoo-Haw Hole or some other asinine name because "vagina" is a swear word) is to make potty and only potty. Anyway, my beef with the stork is that it's just a fucking shitty bird. Of all the things that the conservative right could come up with that magically dieliver babies in the still of the night they had to go with a fucking shit-machine white bird while Christmas gets Santa Claus, Easter gets an egg-laying bunny rabbit, and teeth get taken away by a fucking fairy. I suppose that you've pretty much exhausted the limits of the imagination with all that other shit so a fucking bird carrying babies is all that's left. What a fucking bunch of arbitrary bullshit. A man shoving his cock in some woman's cooch and nine months later a baby popping out sounds a whole bunch more miraculous than some fucking bird that probably shits on people's windshields as it makes deliveries. Fucking birds.
7.) Cross-Promotion Bullshit- Click here. Ahhhhh, Martha Stewart, where you have been lately? My bottom ten lists got lonely without your cold, evil overlord kind of embrace. What now, you ask? Well, Martha Stewart has openly invited Eminem to appear on her show because Martha and her cult are more into the music of Eminem than you would believe. I'll let that sink in for a moment. Do you think that this is an attempt on Martha's part to gain some sort of street cred, branching her appeal into the world of rap, or an invitation to Eminem to branch his appeal into the world of banal domestic divas? Probably a little from column A and a little from column B. I hope that this invitation is decline, or better yet, not even acknowledged because I fucking hate every one of Martha's publicity stunts. Although, she did serve time for being a fucking evil icon or something, maybe she gained an appreciation for rap music while being brutalized in pound-you-in-the-ass prison.
6.) Using The Word 'Diva' To Describe Anything- I should really punch myself in the balls for using that fucking word for anything other than complaining about people who use that word or try to make it some sort of label by which they live their lives. I'm a diva. You're a diva. We're divas! Fuck you! What the fuck is a diva? Seriously. It's just some amorphous, vague jargon that gets thrown around to justify prissy behavior and it's fucking time that people grew up and started taking responsibility for their actions. I demand Perrier Water because I'm a diva and I will be treated accordingly. You demand Perrier Water because you're fucking stuck-up and you have a disproportionately large ego. If you put it like that I might get you a fucking Perrier just to shut you up.
5.) Feuding Pop Princesses- Click here. Britney and Christina have finally settled one of the bloodiest, most violent feuds in pop music history. Indeed, their spat was one of the darkest chapters in modern history and will be long remembered by future generations. What did it take to finally settle this deadly conflict? A fucking crockery set? How the fuck did one attention whore buying another attention whore a fucking crockery set get deemed as newsworthy? Fucking crockery sets don't settle disputes; they don't settle shit; they only make crocks (whatever the fuck those are). Only fistfights and/or lesbian make-out sessions end feuds.
4.) K-Fed- You know what? I'm K-Fed up with with fucking douchebag. Oh, stop groaning, that was fucking pun gold! Click here. So while Britney and Christina attempt some sort of reconciliation over crock (whatever the fuck that is) K-Fed is out and about fostering brand new feuds with many of today's brightest stars by giving the songs off of his soon-to-be-released album titles that are the same titles as songs by other artists. All this because there's a possibility that people will confuse his songs for the songs by those other artists (which are undoubtedly better due to their %100 less K-Fed involvement) when they do things like download tracks off of iTunes. I guess it's sort of fitting that anybody dumb enough not to check who sings a song before they download it off of iTunes deserves to get to hear K-Fed sing.
3.) Spelling "Thanks" With An "X" At The End- Congratulations assholes, you managed to save yourself the time and effort of having to write that whole one extra letter. How the fuck are you not in NASA with such mental prowess as to say, Hey, you know, "-ks" sounds a lot like the sound that the "x" makes. Holy fucking shit! I could just change the "ks" to an "x" and people will still understand and I will look like a total fucking genius because I was able to economize my time. So tell me, genius, what are you going to do with that 0.00056 seconds you just saved with your clever respelling? Oh that's right, 0.00056 seconds isn't even enough time to let out a juicy fart.
2.) DVD Cases That Are Sold With More Than One 'Security Device Enclosed' Sticker On Them- The message behind 'Security Device Enclosed' is straight-forward enough for me that it only takes one sticker to convey it. Why the fuck would you put three of those annoyances on your packaging? Any real crimnal knows that the security device is in the packaging and not on the DVD itself so why not just steal the disc and leave its sticker-riddled packaging on the shelf? Instead you cover all the opening edges with the your stupidity and make legitimate consumers have to work to see your fucking piece-of-shit movies. Bravo.
1.) "London Bridge" By: Fergie- What a fucking terrible song! I know you're kind of expecting me to say something funny because I am a bit of a joke-monkey sometimes, but seriously, that song finds a way to transcend the art of sucking and manages to suck so hard that it implodes on itself almost to the point where I can listen to "My Humps" without vomiting out of ass. That's suck.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Spectator Sport
This is a brand new poem that I wrote after coming home from The Roar's big finale this past Saturday. I'm not sure how I feel about it in it's present form and I may yet go back and do some revisions to it. I was considering writing a part 2 to this piece in which the speaker admits that the only real reason he knows lovers need time to concentrate during road head is because there was a time when he himself received road head and was told that he was the worst participant in such an act. The punchline: being told that he was the worst when it came to road head made for an experience that was easily the worst thirty bucks he ever spent. I may yet write such a poem just because it makes me chuckle to think about a hooker telling her client that he sucks at receiving road head because how the fuck does a guy receive oral sex wrong? That's just plain bad sexpertise. I can't believe I just used the word 'sexpertise' without killing myself immediately afterward. Anyway, enjoy "Spectator Sport"
Spectator Sport
In the car ahead of me the
girl in the passenger seat
administers head to the driver.
I can tell
because she repeatedly comes up for air
before dutifully going back to work. And
I can't help but feel bad for the
poor girl
because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.
It's either a testament to her level of
dedication and
attention to detail or
it's a testament to the driver's
longevity with the hard cock, his
unwillingness to erupt.
I can tell
because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.
At the next red light we reach
I'm debating
getting out of my car and
running up beside theirs to
cheer her on,
yell at her words of encouragement
through a closed driver's-side window,
maybe tell her to breathe through her nose more,
stop coming up for air
because she'll never get the job done like that,
maybe start singing something sexy to
get the driver in the mood to splooge,
except that I'm almost dead certain
my appearance at his side
while receiving a
front-seat hummer, a
Honda Civic civil blowjob, a
suck-job in a sedan,
would kill any erection, and
consequently
make her work
that much more difficult.
Moments that I wish my
car horn played Marvin Gaye or
Curtis Mayfield,
hell, even any sort of peeler theme
over a soundscape of porn starlet moans,
something,
anything,
to put the exclamation point on an
erotic arc and
save that poor girl's time, neck, and jaw.
If the light turns green and the
car is yet to move
I won't rush them,
won't interupt them
because sometimes lovers just need to concentrate,
lose sight of an outside world
long enough
to find a rhythm that works.
-Michael Appleby
September, 2006
Spectator Sport
In the car ahead of me the
girl in the passenger seat
administers head to the driver.
I can tell
because she repeatedly comes up for air
before dutifully going back to work. And
I can't help but feel bad for the
poor girl
because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.
It's either a testament to her level of
dedication and
attention to detail or
it's a testament to the driver's
longevity with the hard cock, his
unwillingness to erupt.
I can tell
because I've been tailing
this car for quite a long time now and
still she works.
At the next red light we reach
I'm debating
getting out of my car and
running up beside theirs to
cheer her on,
yell at her words of encouragement
through a closed driver's-side window,
maybe tell her to breathe through her nose more,
stop coming up for air
because she'll never get the job done like that,
maybe start singing something sexy to
get the driver in the mood to splooge,
except that I'm almost dead certain
my appearance at his side
while receiving a
front-seat hummer, a
Honda Civic civil blowjob, a
suck-job in a sedan,
would kill any erection, and
consequently
make her work
that much more difficult.
Moments that I wish my
car horn played Marvin Gaye or
Curtis Mayfield,
hell, even any sort of peeler theme
over a soundscape of porn starlet moans,
something,
anything,
to put the exclamation point on an
erotic arc and
save that poor girl's time, neck, and jaw.
If the light turns green and the
car is yet to move
I won't rush them,
won't interupt them
because sometimes lovers just need to concentrate,
lose sight of an outside world
long enough
to find a rhythm that works.
-Michael Appleby
September, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Fucking Restauranteurs!
Click here.
Fucking hell! Do I hate news like this or what? Jessica Simpson is set to open a new chain of barbecue restaurants built around a theme of her portrayal of Daisy Duke in the big screen version of the television classic The Dukes Of Hazzard.
But Michael, why do you hate this news. Jessica Simpson is one of the greatest entertainers on the face of the planet right now and it's only right that she should share some of her restaurant expertise with us little people.
Yeah, she's got restaurant expertise alright. I hate it when just anybody with a big wad of money just wakes up one day and decides, Oh shit, I should just open a fucking restaurant because I know what makes for a fine dining experience.
Jessica Simpson's plan: scantily-clad servers wearing hot pants.
The one word I can think of to describe this bold, new, exciting direction for eateries: original.
Nobody's ever thought of having scantily-clad servers before. Jessica Simpson is like some kind of fucking MENSA president compared to the rest of us for coming up with an idea like that. Wow, why the fuck has there never ever in the history of restaurants been a restaurant with scantily-clad waitresses?
You see, it's not that I hate scantily-clad women bearing food, but when that is your whole idea for a restaurant then you're just a pandering whore. What about the fucking food? What about the fucking ambiance? All you can come up with is a Hooters rip-off? Fuck you. There's all ready a Hooters.
If you're just going to do that at least have the tact and the balls to just have a Hooters menu and just slap a bit of black utility tape over the restaurant name. Then you look like you're just trying to be ironic. As it is you just look like you're a money-grubbing, intellectual-property thief. I mean I'm sure that neither Jessica nor her father Joe are opening this restaurant as some elaborate cash-grab, but rather because they both have a passion for providing the perfect dining experience.
A source told America's Life and Style Weekly magazine: "Joe's going to make a lot of money from this."
Well fuck me. This is just prostitution after all.
Newsflash Joe: you could make even more money if you charge patrons for blowjobs administered by scantily clad servers.
And I'm sure that if that were legal you would soon be able to call that guy pimp.
Anybody remember when Jessica Simpson first came onto the scene and the whole shtick behind her was that she was pure, vestal virgin promoting good moral values and a strong Christian upbringing? Yeah, neither do I.
Fucking hypocrites.
Fucking hell! Do I hate news like this or what? Jessica Simpson is set to open a new chain of barbecue restaurants built around a theme of her portrayal of Daisy Duke in the big screen version of the television classic The Dukes Of Hazzard.
But Michael, why do you hate this news. Jessica Simpson is one of the greatest entertainers on the face of the planet right now and it's only right that she should share some of her restaurant expertise with us little people.
Yeah, she's got restaurant expertise alright. I hate it when just anybody with a big wad of money just wakes up one day and decides, Oh shit, I should just open a fucking restaurant because I know what makes for a fine dining experience.
Jessica Simpson's plan: scantily-clad servers wearing hot pants.
The one word I can think of to describe this bold, new, exciting direction for eateries: original.
Nobody's ever thought of having scantily-clad servers before. Jessica Simpson is like some kind of fucking MENSA president compared to the rest of us for coming up with an idea like that. Wow, why the fuck has there never ever in the history of restaurants been a restaurant with scantily-clad waitresses?
You see, it's not that I hate scantily-clad women bearing food, but when that is your whole idea for a restaurant then you're just a pandering whore. What about the fucking food? What about the fucking ambiance? All you can come up with is a Hooters rip-off? Fuck you. There's all ready a Hooters.
If you're just going to do that at least have the tact and the balls to just have a Hooters menu and just slap a bit of black utility tape over the restaurant name. Then you look like you're just trying to be ironic. As it is you just look like you're a money-grubbing, intellectual-property thief. I mean I'm sure that neither Jessica nor her father Joe are opening this restaurant as some elaborate cash-grab, but rather because they both have a passion for providing the perfect dining experience.
A source told America's Life and Style Weekly magazine: "Joe's going to make a lot of money from this."
Well fuck me. This is just prostitution after all.
Newsflash Joe: you could make even more money if you charge patrons for blowjobs administered by scantily clad servers.
And I'm sure that if that were legal you would soon be able to call that guy pimp.
Anybody remember when Jessica Simpson first came onto the scene and the whole shtick behind her was that she was pure, vestal virgin promoting good moral values and a strong Christian upbringing? Yeah, neither do I.
Fucking hypocrites.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The First Embedded YouTube Video Used On Massive Missives. Mark This Day On Your Calendars, Folks!
I just figured there would be quite a few of you out there who would appreciate seeing The Tragically Hip's video for their new single "In View" from the forthcoming album World Container. Enjoy.
I Don't Think It's A Crime When Your Victim Probably Brags To His Friends About Being Victimized
Debra Lafave.
Debra Lafave. Most of you out there probably aren't familiar with who Debra Lafave is, only that I've mentioned her name twice in my little rant so far, which is two more times than I should given that I haven't established any manner of context for dropping her name like that.
Debra Lafave.
There, now it's three times, suckas, what'cha gonna do about it?
But seriously, Debra Lafave is the somewhat famous Tampa, Florida teacher who had sex with one of her 14-year-old students. Here's a link that goes to a hub of articles about the case and her recent television appearance with Matt Lauer.
Interesting to note is the fact that Debra Lafave received no actual jail time for having sex with her student. I've heard reports that it was because she was deemed too pretty to be in jail, where she would in all likelihood become a professional prison salad tosser or at least the prison tricycle (everybody gets a ride). However, that's not why I think she didn't get any jail time with her sentence.
I think it was because I remember what it was like to be a 14-year-old boy myself. In all likelihood there's a "victim" out there who gets to constantly brag to his buddies about how he got to have sex with Debra Lafave, a beautiful woman. I wish some beautiful woman would have had sex with me when I was 14-years-old so that I would have had something to brag about to all my buddies. I was socially awkward and pretty much single for most of my life up until I was... wait a fucking minute, I'm stil socially awkward?!?! Shit!
But then I thought about Michael Jackson, the last older white woman who was accused of having sex with a boy of around that age. To me, the accusations of him/her molesting a boy were more grave than the beautiful 23-year-old woman, so I thought why not go through my thought process for everybody on blogspot? That way I can make a jack-ass of myself and figure out why the allegations against Michael Jackson, while similar to the allegations against Debra Lafave, are more heinous.
Fuck it, I guess it wasn't that hard for me to figure out. Have you seen Michael Jackson? If I was a 14-year-old boy I probably wouldn't brag about having sex with a washed up woman like Michael Jackson because she really isn't a very attractive woman at all. So, then, is what Debra Lafave did a crime if the victim is bragging about being the victim of the crime? Probably, but it sucks. It just doesn't seem right for her to be punished if that was case, but you do have to abide by the laws of the land I suppose. They're there for some fucking reason or other.
But then, what about Michael Jackson. Well, maybe if she were to make a set of breast implants out of her recycled noses she might not invoke enough fear to be accused of impropriety so much.
Debra Lafave. Most of you out there probably aren't familiar with who Debra Lafave is, only that I've mentioned her name twice in my little rant so far, which is two more times than I should given that I haven't established any manner of context for dropping her name like that.
Debra Lafave.
There, now it's three times, suckas, what'cha gonna do about it?
But seriously, Debra Lafave is the somewhat famous Tampa, Florida teacher who had sex with one of her 14-year-old students. Here's a link that goes to a hub of articles about the case and her recent television appearance with Matt Lauer.
Interesting to note is the fact that Debra Lafave received no actual jail time for having sex with her student. I've heard reports that it was because she was deemed too pretty to be in jail, where she would in all likelihood become a professional prison salad tosser or at least the prison tricycle (everybody gets a ride). However, that's not why I think she didn't get any jail time with her sentence.
I think it was because I remember what it was like to be a 14-year-old boy myself. In all likelihood there's a "victim" out there who gets to constantly brag to his buddies about how he got to have sex with Debra Lafave, a beautiful woman. I wish some beautiful woman would have had sex with me when I was 14-years-old so that I would have had something to brag about to all my buddies. I was socially awkward and pretty much single for most of my life up until I was... wait a fucking minute, I'm stil socially awkward?!?! Shit!
But then I thought about Michael Jackson, the last older white woman who was accused of having sex with a boy of around that age. To me, the accusations of him/her molesting a boy were more grave than the beautiful 23-year-old woman, so I thought why not go through my thought process for everybody on blogspot? That way I can make a jack-ass of myself and figure out why the allegations against Michael Jackson, while similar to the allegations against Debra Lafave, are more heinous.
Fuck it, I guess it wasn't that hard for me to figure out. Have you seen Michael Jackson? If I was a 14-year-old boy I probably wouldn't brag about having sex with a washed up woman like Michael Jackson because she really isn't a very attractive woman at all. So, then, is what Debra Lafave did a crime if the victim is bragging about being the victim of the crime? Probably, but it sucks. It just doesn't seem right for her to be punished if that was case, but you do have to abide by the laws of the land I suppose. They're there for some fucking reason or other.
But then, what about Michael Jackson. Well, maybe if she were to make a set of breast implants out of her recycled noses she might not invoke enough fear to be accused of impropriety so much.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Rust And Bone
I just recently finished reading Craig Davidson's collection of stories entitled Rust And Bone. I bought the book on the strength of a positive review written in one of the many magazines I buy on a regular basis (note to self: you read too many magazines).
After reading the book I have to say that I was quite impressed with what I saw in Davidson's writing. There were numerous instances in which I saw shades of Palahniuk. Stories like "A Mean Utility", "Friction" , and "Rust And Bone" show a Chuck P. kind of grit that I love to see in literature. Then stories like "Rocket Ride", and "On Sleepless Roads" show Davidson's ability to come up with an interesting premise. All in all, this a good flexing of some serious literary muscle.
If I did have any qualms with this book it was with the last story in the bunch. It seems to me that what Davidson was trying to do with the book was to show his range and writing ability. Mission accomplished very well, but one of the stories seemed out of place. The last story in the collection, "The Apprentice's Guide To Modern Magic" really seemed more like a story that could have been a novella as opposed to say a single-sitting short story, and its subject matter, a brother and sister who go on a quest to confront the father who abandoned them years and years ago, really did not seem to belong among a collection of stories about grizzled boxers, dog breeders, sex addicts, and drunks. Maybe that's just me. That's not to suggest that "The Apprentice's Guide To Modern Magic" was poorly written or not worth reading. It was actually a great story and I loved reading it; it just didn't seem to fit in with the other stories in the collection is all.
Rust And Bone is a great book, though, and definitely worth checking out. The jacket mentions that Craig Davidson is currently working on a novel about boxing and if his novel-writing ability is on par with his short-story-chops, readers will be in for quite a treat. Do check it out.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Cutting Edge, My Ass!
I was flipping through an old issue of Wired the other day and saw an ad for Nextfest, which is some sort of convention for brainiacs and the technologically inclined. Anyway, in the ad there was a picture of Hubo. For those of you who don't know what Hubo is, Hubo is a humanoid robot made by Kaist. And then the thought occurred to me, how long is it before we have the technology to have sex slave robots? Certainly it's not an original thought (I'm not really an original kind of guy), but it was my thought when I was looking at that picture of Hubo. Not that I think Hubo is sexually attractive. Well, okay, he/she/it is kind of hot, but where are the fucking orifices?!?!
Where was I?
So, yeah, there I was thinking, Wow, we've really come a long way with our robotic technology. We might not have sex slave robots yet, but it's only a matter of time. It's only a matter of time.
But now I wish to make my contribution to the field of robotics. Sure, I might not know shit about electronics (I still try to make toast with my DVD drive), and I sure as fuck know next to nothing when it comes to the field of programming (this site is as low-tech as a boot to the fucking skull), but I feel that I have a very valuable contribution to make to the field of robotics.
Namely, it has to do with the names that these robots are being given.
They're not sexy.
If we are ever going to achieve our lifelong dream as a species of one day creating sex slave robots we are going to need these robots to start having sexier names. Sure, we're still in the infancy of the field when it comes to articulation and whatnot, but we need to start thinking along the lines of sexy robot names because Hubo, as a name, only gives me minor wood. How the fuck am I supposed to sodomize a robot when it's sporting a name like Hubo, huh? Exactly.
So, brainiacs in the robotics industry, please refer to more porno movies before you decide on any names for your upcoming projects because so far the whole field of robots have been given dud names. There are likely to have been cavewomen who had sexier names than any of these robots. And cavewomen are the very antithesis of high tech. So how the fuck can the furry brow and knuckle-dragging cavewomen get sexier names than the fucking cutting edge robots? Huh? How the fuck?
Come on nerds, smarten up!
Where was I?
So, yeah, there I was thinking, Wow, we've really come a long way with our robotic technology. We might not have sex slave robots yet, but it's only a matter of time. It's only a matter of time.
But now I wish to make my contribution to the field of robotics. Sure, I might not know shit about electronics (I still try to make toast with my DVD drive), and I sure as fuck know next to nothing when it comes to the field of programming (this site is as low-tech as a boot to the fucking skull), but I feel that I have a very valuable contribution to make to the field of robotics.
Namely, it has to do with the names that these robots are being given.
They're not sexy.
If we are ever going to achieve our lifelong dream as a species of one day creating sex slave robots we are going to need these robots to start having sexier names. Sure, we're still in the infancy of the field when it comes to articulation and whatnot, but we need to start thinking along the lines of sexy robot names because Hubo, as a name, only gives me minor wood. How the fuck am I supposed to sodomize a robot when it's sporting a name like Hubo, huh? Exactly.
So, brainiacs in the robotics industry, please refer to more porno movies before you decide on any names for your upcoming projects because so far the whole field of robots have been given dud names. There are likely to have been cavewomen who had sexier names than any of these robots. And cavewomen are the very antithesis of high tech. So how the fuck can the furry brow and knuckle-dragging cavewomen get sexier names than the fucking cutting edge robots? Huh? How the fuck?
Come on nerds, smarten up!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
The Latest Calgary Trip
So on Sunday I gave my latest poetry reading in Calgary as part of the Calgary Stroll of Poets festival. I got a chance to read at Second Cup in Kensington and the place was packed. I am a bit ashamed to admit, though, that when I saw the type of audience that was in attendance I opted out of reading poems like "Vitriol," "Roll Call," and "Gnawing My Way To Freedom." There were a lot of small children and the last thing I wanted to do was to send families away with kids asking, "Mom, what's 'double-bagging' mean?"
The three poems I did pull out, then, were "Humidor," "Sorry States," and "Knot Garden."
The response I got was very positive and, like in past years, I even got to sign a book or two. Calgary always treats me well.
I think I might have to make an effort to read again down there in the not-too-distant future.
The three poems I did pull out, then, were "Humidor," "Sorry States," and "Knot Garden."
The response I got was very positive and, like in past years, I even got to sign a book or two. Calgary always treats me well.
I think I might have to make an effort to read again down there in the not-too-distant future.
Friday, September 08, 2006
One From The Vaults
Antecedent
the realization that i am not the agent of euphoria
in this relationship.
fear is indeed capable of a slow evolution.
the woman and me, happy.
a slight drinking problem:
she has only been sober once
on all the dates that we have been on.
the woman and me, together.
serious.
a slight problem with paycheques
disappearing up her nose
when i am not around.
the woman and me, tethered.
dire.
an early grave for either one of us:
her from too much chemical indulgence.
or
me from worry, too much stress.
the realization that i am witnessing a car wreck
before it actually happens.
dreams of clawing at vinyl upholstery,
trapped, tied up, spotting a web of seatbelts
smelling gasoline
seeing rainbows on the asphalt.
waiting for fire.
-Michael Appleby
October, 2004
the realization that i am not the agent of euphoria
in this relationship.
fear is indeed capable of a slow evolution.
the woman and me, happy.
a slight drinking problem:
she has only been sober once
on all the dates that we have been on.
the woman and me, together.
serious.
a slight problem with paycheques
disappearing up her nose
when i am not around.
the woman and me, tethered.
dire.
an early grave for either one of us:
her from too much chemical indulgence.
or
me from worry, too much stress.
the realization that i am witnessing a car wreck
before it actually happens.
dreams of clawing at vinyl upholstery,
trapped, tied up, spotting a web of seatbelts
smelling gasoline
seeing rainbows on the asphalt.
waiting for fire.
-Michael Appleby
October, 2004
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