Click here.
You have to click the above link this time around. You have to. Why? Because it's a link to a video clip of Kevin Federline (aka Cletus, aka Mr. Britney, aka El Numero Uno Douchebago) rocking out to his musical debut "Popozao" which I believe is a trailer park word for a delicacy made from raccoon entrails.
And the reason why I ask you to watch this is so that you get a good idea of what not to do when you are a creative person who wants the world to take you and your craft seriously.
You see, Kevin Federline, in this video clip, basically introduces the track inside a recording studio and as the track begins to play he proceeds to "rock out" to it. Seriously, watch the idiot go. I swear he practically jizzes his pants listening to his own song.
And one word to describe the song? Forgettable.
You never saw Salvador Dali pause in front of his own works and say, "Oh my fucking god, I'm so fucking cool! Look at this, motherfuckers! I'm a fucking artistic genius!" You never saw John Coltrane pause mid-song and exclaim, "Holy shit, I'm fucking light years ahead of the rest of you motherfuckers. You should be lining up to blow me I'm so fucking great."
Do you know why? Because they let the creative works do the talking for them. They weren't trying to sell themselves as being cool, they let the work convince the world that they were cool. If you have to sell it to the world, it probably isn't worth shit!
Anyway, I just thought I would pass the link along to you. Who knows how long it will be up, but enjoy it while it lasts. Watching it myself it really makes me appreciate the creative folks who I am privileged enough to call my peers because they produce kick-ass work and they're humble about what they do. It also really makes me wish I could punch Cletus in the throat.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
What Exactly Is Wrong With Looking Like A Crazy Prick?
Click here.
Jelena Dokic's father is a pretty cool guy. I mean he has a top-ranked tennis player for a daughter, he smokes a pipe, he has a beard, and he wants to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney, Australia.
Wait! What!?!?!?!
Michael, I didn't know that you followed the happenings of the tennis world too.
I don't, but for me to write about this one little thing suddenly adds more depth to my character, giving me this false sheen of being omnipotent. But anyway, that's an aside.
No wait! He didn't say that, did he? There seems to be a controversy, albeit a minor one, over whether or not Captain Beard-o actually said that he wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney.
Okay, I mean motherfucking "Wow!" on this one. After reading the article I have decided that Damir Dokic is a kooky kind of cat, in a homicidal nut kind of way. He wants to kidnap his own daughter? He wants revenge on Australia because his daughter lost at the Australian Open? He thinks hot sausages before a tennis match in sweltering heat is bad? He thinks the Vatican and Croatia are in cahoots in convincing his daughter to leave Serbia to move to Australia?
He is clearly a man with a lot on his mind.
But then he denies ever having said that he wanted to drop the nuke on Sydney?
Okay, here's the deal with soccer mom style rants, Damir, or may I call you Captain Beard-o because that is not just a beard, it's a fucking adventure? Okay, then, Captain Beard-o, the deal with soccer mom style rants is that the zanier they get the more memorable they become. Nobody remembers the simple, "The ref made a bad call at yesterday's game," rant. Why? Because those rants are boring.
I mean you are so close to having a crazy rant for the ages from the sound of it. Being pissed off with Australia in general? Check. Accusing the Vatican and Croatia of shit they probably don't even give a fuck about? Check and check. Meeting with high ranking Serbian politicians to plan a kidnapping of his daughter to return her home land? Check. Hot sausages? Oh hell, motherfucking, yeah!
So Captain Beard-o, why even deny making statements to the effect that you want to nuke Australia? You're so close to some sort of soccer mom hall-of-fame rant here and that may just be the ticket to put you over the top.
Besides, who hasn't thought about dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney? The world's leading psychologists all agree that the thought of dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney crosses the average person's mind at least twice a day. And we don't even have tennis star daughters who were lured away from us to go live there.
Jelena Dokic's father is a pretty cool guy. I mean he has a top-ranked tennis player for a daughter, he smokes a pipe, he has a beard, and he wants to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney, Australia.
Wait! What!?!?!?!
Michael, I didn't know that you followed the happenings of the tennis world too.
I don't, but for me to write about this one little thing suddenly adds more depth to my character, giving me this false sheen of being omnipotent. But anyway, that's an aside.
No wait! He didn't say that, did he? There seems to be a controversy, albeit a minor one, over whether or not Captain Beard-o actually said that he wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney.
Okay, I mean motherfucking "Wow!" on this one. After reading the article I have decided that Damir Dokic is a kooky kind of cat, in a homicidal nut kind of way. He wants to kidnap his own daughter? He wants revenge on Australia because his daughter lost at the Australian Open? He thinks hot sausages before a tennis match in sweltering heat is bad? He thinks the Vatican and Croatia are in cahoots in convincing his daughter to leave Serbia to move to Australia?
He is clearly a man with a lot on his mind.
But then he denies ever having said that he wanted to drop the nuke on Sydney?
Okay, here's the deal with soccer mom style rants, Damir, or may I call you Captain Beard-o because that is not just a beard, it's a fucking adventure? Okay, then, Captain Beard-o, the deal with soccer mom style rants is that the zanier they get the more memorable they become. Nobody remembers the simple, "The ref made a bad call at yesterday's game," rant. Why? Because those rants are boring.
I mean you are so close to having a crazy rant for the ages from the sound of it. Being pissed off with Australia in general? Check. Accusing the Vatican and Croatia of shit they probably don't even give a fuck about? Check and check. Meeting with high ranking Serbian politicians to plan a kidnapping of his daughter to return her home land? Check. Hot sausages? Oh hell, motherfucking, yeah!
So Captain Beard-o, why even deny making statements to the effect that you want to nuke Australia? You're so close to some sort of soccer mom hall-of-fame rant here and that may just be the ticket to put you over the top.
Besides, who hasn't thought about dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney? The world's leading psychologists all agree that the thought of dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney crosses the average person's mind at least twice a day. And we don't even have tennis star daughters who were lured away from us to go live there.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Damn You, George Clooney! Damn You To Hell!
George W. Bush is quite possibly the scariest man on the face of the Earth. Now, now, don't just stop reading right here because you think this is some sort of partisan politics bullshit rant where I go on and on about all the wrong that Dubya has been responsible for over the past five years. Fuck, there are enough rants out there like that. If I'm going to pick on the douchebag I'm going to pick my targets wisely and stick to them. But really, though, there's no denying the fact that George W. Bush is the scariest man on the face of the Earth.
I mean, here you have a man who has access to the largest army in the world and questionable morals to boot. He has clearly exhibited a propensity to go to war and, thus, become indirectly, or directly maybe, responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of people.
But George W. Bush is a man of integrity. He stands for family values and is building a better future whether you like to admit it or not, Mr. Appleby. True, he was the president who went to war, but there were WMD's out there and are probably still out there, waiting to be found. He has done nothing that is morally reprehensible in the slightest and my only regret is that American presidents can't serve more than two terms because his is the greatest presidency ever!
Shut the fuck up! Go ahead and believe whatever you want about the guy. He's still fucking scary.
I want to go back to 2004. That was the election year if you'll recall. I remember all year long paying rather close attention to the unfolding of the election campaign for months leading up to November. I would wake up each morning thinking, Oh God, they have to vote somebody else in there. Somebody, anybody. This evil, evil capitalist can't keep ruining the world, can he? Somebody, please, save us!
Then November rolled around and...What the fuck! The tyrant got re-elected! Fuck! Fuck!
And you know what? The Democrats really didn't deserve to win the election. For the longest time I thought it was because John Kerry wasn't a strong enough opponent for an evil tyrant. Today, though, I found out the real reason why the Democrats lost the election.
George fucking Clooney.
That's right.
George fucking Clooney.
You see, apparently during the campaign trail John Kerry was inviting numerous actors onto his election train. I mean, natrually, actors have a lot of pull with the American electorate and George Clooney, being the King of Actors, probably has the most pull in all of America. If George Clooney gets behind you come election time you might ass well get your ass in shape for sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office because Mister, you're fucking elected! That's the nature of George Clooney. People look up to him. He can't help it.
So anyway, back to the train...
John Kerry invited all these actors to ride on the John Kerry Cross-Country Election Express, destination: Washington fucking D fucking C, bitches! I mean, it was a veritable who's who of the silver screen. There was Carrot Top and Rosie O'Donnell and, oh my God, look over there! It's Jane Seymour!
But where the fuck was George Clooney?
He turned down the invitation to get on board the train?!?!?!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And that's how George W. Bush beat John Kerry in 2004. Oh sure, you might have thought it had something to do with party platforms, partisanship, maybe even candidate personality. But no, you'd be fucking wrong, dummy! It was all because George Clooney turned down a train ride.
Either American voters are really, really, really fickle.
What?! George Clooney ain't on the train?! Fuck John Kerry! Cletus, I'm voting for Bush! Yee-haw!
Or maybe some celebrities should really stop to consider that maybe a presidential candidate is fully capable of losing a damn election on his own. It's noble you want to be the whipping boy for the whole election debacle, but you're premise is just a shade too far-fetched.
I mean, here you have a man who has access to the largest army in the world and questionable morals to boot. He has clearly exhibited a propensity to go to war and, thus, become indirectly, or directly maybe, responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of people.
But George W. Bush is a man of integrity. He stands for family values and is building a better future whether you like to admit it or not, Mr. Appleby. True, he was the president who went to war, but there were WMD's out there and are probably still out there, waiting to be found. He has done nothing that is morally reprehensible in the slightest and my only regret is that American presidents can't serve more than two terms because his is the greatest presidency ever!
Shut the fuck up! Go ahead and believe whatever you want about the guy. He's still fucking scary.
I want to go back to 2004. That was the election year if you'll recall. I remember all year long paying rather close attention to the unfolding of the election campaign for months leading up to November. I would wake up each morning thinking, Oh God, they have to vote somebody else in there. Somebody, anybody. This evil, evil capitalist can't keep ruining the world, can he? Somebody, please, save us!
Then November rolled around and...What the fuck! The tyrant got re-elected! Fuck! Fuck!
And you know what? The Democrats really didn't deserve to win the election. For the longest time I thought it was because John Kerry wasn't a strong enough opponent for an evil tyrant. Today, though, I found out the real reason why the Democrats lost the election.
George fucking Clooney.
That's right.
George fucking Clooney.
You see, apparently during the campaign trail John Kerry was inviting numerous actors onto his election train. I mean, natrually, actors have a lot of pull with the American electorate and George Clooney, being the King of Actors, probably has the most pull in all of America. If George Clooney gets behind you come election time you might ass well get your ass in shape for sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office because Mister, you're fucking elected! That's the nature of George Clooney. People look up to him. He can't help it.
So anyway, back to the train...
John Kerry invited all these actors to ride on the John Kerry Cross-Country Election Express, destination: Washington fucking D fucking C, bitches! I mean, it was a veritable who's who of the silver screen. There was Carrot Top and Rosie O'Donnell and, oh my God, look over there! It's Jane Seymour!
But where the fuck was George Clooney?
He turned down the invitation to get on board the train?!?!?!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And that's how George W. Bush beat John Kerry in 2004. Oh sure, you might have thought it had something to do with party platforms, partisanship, maybe even candidate personality. But no, you'd be fucking wrong, dummy! It was all because George Clooney turned down a train ride.
Either American voters are really, really, really fickle.
What?! George Clooney ain't on the train?! Fuck John Kerry! Cletus, I'm voting for Bush! Yee-haw!
Or maybe some celebrities should really stop to consider that maybe a presidential candidate is fully capable of losing a damn election on his own. It's noble you want to be the whipping boy for the whole election debacle, but you're premise is just a shade too far-fetched.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Clean Of You
Clean Of You
Going to bed clean
of you
for the first time in
a long time.
Learning the differ
ences between heart
and brain are more
than spatial and
function
al.
Heart arhythms
for your nakedness claw
ing its way up under
neath the bed
sheets and smother
ing mine the way it used
to.
Brain knows, “Good
for me. I’m bet
ter off alone.”
In every connotat
ion there could possibly
be.
Going to bed clean
of you
for the first time in
a long time.
Dreaming of sex, hold
ing your hand, and
every other bad thing
that I could ever
do.
Monday, January 09, 2006
A Literary Dilemma
I work with a lot of people who read. It's not difficult in this world to find people who read. A lot of the world is comprised of literate people. The people I work with are also big fans of Oprah.
Now when it comes to the literary world it's really no surprise that the biggest, most powerful book club around is the Oprah Book Club. Oprah Winfrey has a seeming Midas touch when it comes to driving her favorite books to the top of the bestsellers lists. Why? Because Oprah is a powerful, powerful force to be reckoned with.
That being said, I'll admit that I bought James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and have been reading it because a large number of the people I work with have either read it or are in the midst of reading it. They all seem to be amazed by the book and Frey's tale of redemption. For those of you not in-the-know about A Million Little Pieces, it's a recount of Frey's six-week stay in rehab after years of drug abuse. It's an uplifting tale of going to the edge and managing to turn one's self around before it's ultimately too late. Mind you, I haven't finished reading it (I'm creeping up on page 120 or so).
I was very leary of buying any book with the Oprah Book Club sticker on it partly because she tend to choose very "safe" literature for her club and partly because I really don't want to contribute to Oprah's seemingly ever-ballooning ego. But now that I've had the book for a few weeks now timing is proving to sometimes be a funny thing.
Click here.
As part of my regular internet rituals I was visiting fark.com and came across a link to a Smoking Gun article about A Million Little Pieces. The article, which is the link I provided with the "Click here" goes into detail about how Frey's book, while being touted as a brutally honest, gripping piece of nonfiction, is, in fact, fictionalized in a number of areas at the very least. Accounts of court cases and arrests that happened involved Frey could not be found by the people at The Smoking Gun. What they also found odd was how many of the real life characters who helped Frey on his road to recovery were either all dead or could not be found.
Which leads me to the whole dilemma of the matter.
Since it appears as though this could in fact be an elaborate ruse for money on Frey's part should I stop reading the book?
What's odd is that if the book had been marketed as a piece of fiction I would probably say that it's a pretty decent piece of fiction so far. It's writing is pretty gritty and he does some pretty cool things with the language like eliminating quotation marks and not breaking the dialogue up with too many "he said" or "she said" type insertions.
It's just unfortunate that the whole marketing ploy behind the book is that it's 100% real. It's all about its credibility, which would seem to be a veneer now that I've read the TSG piece on it.
There are other books I could start reading right now instead of A Million Little Pieces. The question is, should I?
Now when it comes to the literary world it's really no surprise that the biggest, most powerful book club around is the Oprah Book Club. Oprah Winfrey has a seeming Midas touch when it comes to driving her favorite books to the top of the bestsellers lists. Why? Because Oprah is a powerful, powerful force to be reckoned with.
That being said, I'll admit that I bought James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and have been reading it because a large number of the people I work with have either read it or are in the midst of reading it. They all seem to be amazed by the book and Frey's tale of redemption. For those of you not in-the-know about A Million Little Pieces, it's a recount of Frey's six-week stay in rehab after years of drug abuse. It's an uplifting tale of going to the edge and managing to turn one's self around before it's ultimately too late. Mind you, I haven't finished reading it (I'm creeping up on page 120 or so).
I was very leary of buying any book with the Oprah Book Club sticker on it partly because she tend to choose very "safe" literature for her club and partly because I really don't want to contribute to Oprah's seemingly ever-ballooning ego. But now that I've had the book for a few weeks now timing is proving to sometimes be a funny thing.
Click here.
As part of my regular internet rituals I was visiting fark.com and came across a link to a Smoking Gun article about A Million Little Pieces. The article, which is the link I provided with the "Click here" goes into detail about how Frey's book, while being touted as a brutally honest, gripping piece of nonfiction, is, in fact, fictionalized in a number of areas at the very least. Accounts of court cases and arrests that happened involved Frey could not be found by the people at The Smoking Gun. What they also found odd was how many of the real life characters who helped Frey on his road to recovery were either all dead or could not be found.
Which leads me to the whole dilemma of the matter.
Since it appears as though this could in fact be an elaborate ruse for money on Frey's part should I stop reading the book?
What's odd is that if the book had been marketed as a piece of fiction I would probably say that it's a pretty decent piece of fiction so far. It's writing is pretty gritty and he does some pretty cool things with the language like eliminating quotation marks and not breaking the dialogue up with too many "he said" or "she said" type insertions.
It's just unfortunate that the whole marketing ploy behind the book is that it's 100% real. It's all about its credibility, which would seem to be a veneer now that I've read the TSG piece on it.
There are other books I could start reading right now instead of A Million Little Pieces. The question is, should I?
Friday, January 06, 2006
Won't Somebody, Please, Think Of The Hoodies?!?!
Okay, first off, let me start this off by saying that violence isn't cool. I know that the "cool" people's propaganda machine has made it out to seem that boot-fucking a fellow human's skull is somehow "hip" or "righteous," but try to think of it from the perspective of the person being boot-fucked. Now does it seem so cool?
Speaking from experience I can remember many instances from my youth in which I faced a lot of peer pressure to commit acts of violence.
"Come on, Michael. Let's go club that old lady with these 4 month old baguettes!"
or:
"Gee, Michael, wouldn't it be swell if we tried to take on that whole playschool class walking down the sidewalk in a battle royale to the death? Come on, I'll go get my ass-whomping boots!"
Certainly, there were other instances, but I'm just naming some of them off the top of my head. I mean, they were some nice "ass-whomping boots," but that doesn't justify pummeling a couple dozen playschool kids.
Okay, Michael, where the fuck are you going with all this? You're rambling is making me want to go pull my ass-whomping boots out and whomp your ass! Wow me for fuck's sake.
Okay, okay, Mr. Impatient. Here it is.
Click Here.
Oh, those wacky Britons! Anti-crime crusaders have lambasted this French company for producing a hoody that can zip it's hood all the way over and convert into (gasp!) a ski mask. Why? Because “It might look good on a ski slope and keep you warm, but it would look terrifying in any British street late at night.”
But this is where I really need you to click that link. The images contained in the article are copyright to the Sun and I certainly don't need the Britons lambasting me next for reproducing their images. Doesn't the guy wearing the hoody look like a Luchador? His professional wrestling name could be El Camo Pinto! And his finishing move could be a sort of half-swaton-bomb, half-fall-off-the-top-rope-because-the-mask-has-poor-visibility-and-scream-oh-fucking-blimey-I've-soiled-me-luchador-knickers! That would be quite the move, trust me people who aren't familiar with pro wrestling or its moves. It's a move that I just made up off the top of my head and I have it copyrighted in case you were interested in starting a lucrative career in the field of pro wrestling and needed a finishing move.
But now I'm rambling again. Back to the task at hand...
Seriously, though, what the fuck? You're upset because when the hood is zipped up all the way it can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker? Seriously, that's what the fucking problem is?
Newflash: there's a lot of shit out there that can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker! Lots of shit! If an attacker wants to conceal his/her identity that badly there is always a way. It doesn't take a fucking hoodie to suddenly turn somebody into Mr. Incognito, Rapist-At-Large! It's like you think that the gene that makes people evil somehow also makes them fucking stupid.
Well golly gee-whiz, I could never go on that massive murder spree that I've always wanted to go on because nobody made a hoody that not only kept me warm, but concealed my identity as a mass murderer. Now with this hoody I the puzzle is complete and people can die! Thank you French company who makes these hoodies!
Does that really happen? Come on, really? I hate getting all rhetorical on your ass, but sometimes it's necessary to prove a point.
Tonight that point is this. It's not the clothes that make the man or woman or whatever a criminal. It's the fucking crime that makes the criminal! If you're so concerned about stopping crime stop fucking around with French hoody manufacturers and start focusing your attention on criminals!
Besides, and I hate to really mention this because I'm not what you could call a fashion expert, that hoody is pretty fucking silly looking. I don't think this is going to be the next big thing in fashion. I doubt that there will really be that many people who wake up and say, "Holy shit! I want to look like I'm into the whole bondage culture, but I really don't want to have to contend with the chaffing of tight vinyl." That being said, pointing a criminal out who accosted you wearing such a silly-looking thing should be pretty easy. Just look for the big fucking zipper running up the middle of his face!
Speaking from experience I can remember many instances from my youth in which I faced a lot of peer pressure to commit acts of violence.
"Come on, Michael. Let's go club that old lady with these 4 month old baguettes!"
or:
"Gee, Michael, wouldn't it be swell if we tried to take on that whole playschool class walking down the sidewalk in a battle royale to the death? Come on, I'll go get my ass-whomping boots!"
Certainly, there were other instances, but I'm just naming some of them off the top of my head. I mean, they were some nice "ass-whomping boots," but that doesn't justify pummeling a couple dozen playschool kids.
Okay, Michael, where the fuck are you going with all this? You're rambling is making me want to go pull my ass-whomping boots out and whomp your ass! Wow me for fuck's sake.
Okay, okay, Mr. Impatient. Here it is.
Click Here.
Oh, those wacky Britons! Anti-crime crusaders have lambasted this French company for producing a hoody that can zip it's hood all the way over and convert into (gasp!) a ski mask. Why? Because “It might look good on a ski slope and keep you warm, but it would look terrifying in any British street late at night.”
But this is where I really need you to click that link. The images contained in the article are copyright to the Sun and I certainly don't need the Britons lambasting me next for reproducing their images. Doesn't the guy wearing the hoody look like a Luchador? His professional wrestling name could be El Camo Pinto! And his finishing move could be a sort of half-swaton-bomb, half-fall-off-the-top-rope-because-the-mask-has-poor-visibility-and-scream-oh-fucking-blimey-I've-soiled-me-luchador-knickers! That would be quite the move, trust me people who aren't familiar with pro wrestling or its moves. It's a move that I just made up off the top of my head and I have it copyrighted in case you were interested in starting a lucrative career in the field of pro wrestling and needed a finishing move.
But now I'm rambling again. Back to the task at hand...
Seriously, though, what the fuck? You're upset because when the hood is zipped up all the way it can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker? Seriously, that's what the fucking problem is?
Newflash: there's a lot of shit out there that can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker! Lots of shit! If an attacker wants to conceal his/her identity that badly there is always a way. It doesn't take a fucking hoodie to suddenly turn somebody into Mr. Incognito, Rapist-At-Large! It's like you think that the gene that makes people evil somehow also makes them fucking stupid.
Well golly gee-whiz, I could never go on that massive murder spree that I've always wanted to go on because nobody made a hoody that not only kept me warm, but concealed my identity as a mass murderer. Now with this hoody I the puzzle is complete and people can die! Thank you French company who makes these hoodies!
Does that really happen? Come on, really? I hate getting all rhetorical on your ass, but sometimes it's necessary to prove a point.
Tonight that point is this. It's not the clothes that make the man or woman or whatever a criminal. It's the fucking crime that makes the criminal! If you're so concerned about stopping crime stop fucking around with French hoody manufacturers and start focusing your attention on criminals!
Besides, and I hate to really mention this because I'm not what you could call a fashion expert, that hoody is pretty fucking silly looking. I don't think this is going to be the next big thing in fashion. I doubt that there will really be that many people who wake up and say, "Holy shit! I want to look like I'm into the whole bondage culture, but I really don't want to have to contend with the chaffing of tight vinyl." That being said, pointing a criminal out who accosted you wearing such a silly-looking thing should be pretty easy. Just look for the big fucking zipper running up the middle of his face!
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The Real Sin City
Click here.
An article in the Detroit News, which is by far the most clever name for a newspaper ever, has labeled Windsor, Ontario as a sort of hedonistic hotbed of sin and numerous vices. I mean think about it, just across the Canada-United States border from Detroit perfectly legal sex-for-money escort services and Cuban cigars can be had. This, of course, is brought to the forefront as men flock to Detroit in time for Super Bowl XL. And, all of this, of course, upsets the mayor of Windsor.
All I have to say about this is: Why?
Oh, boo-hoo, some media in Detroit have called my city, MY CITY, the Super Sin City because escorts here can legally fuck you for money, we sell Cuban cigars, our beer isn't American, and we have strippers dancing like there's no tomorrow. Oh, woe is me! Whatever will Mommy and Daddy think of my beloved city if all we have are escorts, cigars, beer, and strippers.
Rich! That's what, you stupid moron. Fuck, if my city was being shunned for its sex and cigars just in time for Super Bowl you better believe that I would start an ad campaign singing the praises of sex and cigars just for all that American testerone bag male tourist money. I'd be on television as much as possible in Detroit yelling, "Come up north, fellas, we have all the Cuban cigars, sex, Canadian beer, and strippers you could possibly want! This is the fucking place to be Super Bowl week!" There would be strippers and escorts getting each other off with Cuban cigars in the foreground, in the background. Hell, a couple of them would probably be using some sort of strap-on Cuban cigar dealy they'd refer to as the Cuban Strap-On Crisis. Above all else, though, you hear them moaning over pints of Molson, "Cum to Canada! Cum to Canada! Oh God, yes! Cum to Canada!"
I guarantee you that Super Bowl week would be a week of economic boom in Windsor thanks to horny tourists visiting Detroit for the Super Bowl.
I mean what the fuck is the big fucking deal? You have sex-for-money escorts, tons of strippers, Cuban cigars and beer that isn't watered down to the point of being Perrier with a Budweiser label. Not a word of the article is a lie so why get all bent out of shape about it? There are fucking hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of dollars to be made from American men looking for their jollies come Super Bowl week and suddenly you want your city to be seen as some sort of bastion of high morality and fucking family values? Who exactly votes people like you into office?
Ewwwwww! Ewwwwww! Tourism profits! Get it away! Get it away! Ewwwwww!
I guess it all just goes to show you that politicians can be idiots as much as everyday people like you and me.
An article in the Detroit News, which is by far the most clever name for a newspaper ever, has labeled Windsor, Ontario as a sort of hedonistic hotbed of sin and numerous vices. I mean think about it, just across the Canada-United States border from Detroit perfectly legal sex-for-money escort services and Cuban cigars can be had. This, of course, is brought to the forefront as men flock to Detroit in time for Super Bowl XL. And, all of this, of course, upsets the mayor of Windsor.
All I have to say about this is: Why?
Oh, boo-hoo, some media in Detroit have called my city, MY CITY, the Super Sin City because escorts here can legally fuck you for money, we sell Cuban cigars, our beer isn't American, and we have strippers dancing like there's no tomorrow. Oh, woe is me! Whatever will Mommy and Daddy think of my beloved city if all we have are escorts, cigars, beer, and strippers.
Rich! That's what, you stupid moron. Fuck, if my city was being shunned for its sex and cigars just in time for Super Bowl you better believe that I would start an ad campaign singing the praises of sex and cigars just for all that American testerone bag male tourist money. I'd be on television as much as possible in Detroit yelling, "Come up north, fellas, we have all the Cuban cigars, sex, Canadian beer, and strippers you could possibly want! This is the fucking place to be Super Bowl week!" There would be strippers and escorts getting each other off with Cuban cigars in the foreground, in the background. Hell, a couple of them would probably be using some sort of strap-on Cuban cigar dealy they'd refer to as the Cuban Strap-On Crisis. Above all else, though, you hear them moaning over pints of Molson, "Cum to Canada! Cum to Canada! Oh God, yes! Cum to Canada!"
I guarantee you that Super Bowl week would be a week of economic boom in Windsor thanks to horny tourists visiting Detroit for the Super Bowl.
I mean what the fuck is the big fucking deal? You have sex-for-money escorts, tons of strippers, Cuban cigars and beer that isn't watered down to the point of being Perrier with a Budweiser label. Not a word of the article is a lie so why get all bent out of shape about it? There are fucking hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of dollars to be made from American men looking for their jollies come Super Bowl week and suddenly you want your city to be seen as some sort of bastion of high morality and fucking family values? Who exactly votes people like you into office?
Ewwwwww! Ewwwwww! Tourism profits! Get it away! Get it away! Ewwwwww!
I guess it all just goes to show you that politicians can be idiots as much as everyday people like you and me.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Dawn Of The New Year
First off, let me start off this post by saying Happy New Year to you, my readers and regular visitors. May 2006 bring you all the joy and success that is humanly possible.
Secondly, I apologize for the relatively quiet December I hadwith regards to keeping this blog regularly updated. I had an actual busy holiday season this time around. It was kind of nice. Now that things are slowly, but surely, settling down a little bit I can get back into a routine that is comfortable and productive (hopefully).
So, anyway, I thought that I would write a little bit about some of the resolutions that I have made for myself this year. I know that most of you probably think the idea of making resolutions is kind of corny on my part since I'm such an outside-of-the-box kind of thinker, but it has been my experience in the past that resolutions can work.
This year, then, I resolve to...
Write More Often- with so many projects on the go between this blog, my poetry, Sometimes Sinister, and my attempt at a novel which I call Chicken Little: A Novel so far, it's definitely hard to physically sit myself down and write any of this on a regular basis given the demands of my life outside the page.
Stop Reading So Much Junk Publications- junk publications, you ask? I mean stuff that doesn't make me feel enriched after reading it. Even really bad books can give a guy a little bit of enrichment, but what I'm referring to specifically are men's lifestyle magazines like Maxim, FHM, and Stuff. I'll admit that sometimes there are bits and pieces in there that make me laugh, but, as a whole, they do little but make me sad because I wasn't reading something with more to offer, I spent too much money for such a trifle of a publication, and I'm addicted to them for some reason. I always get asked if I get them just for the pictures of starlets in states of semi-undress, but that's not it at all. I could go online and get fully nude women all the time if that was the selling point. I think I'm more addicted to the yuppie male lifestyle that this publications champion. More than half of each issue of those magazines is built around trying to sell you something. It's not just the ad space either, which there is alarming amounts of, but a lot of the regular features are parades of gadgets, the latest offerings from the entertainment industry, and the latest fashions. Why? So that you buy into it all. That's why most of the stuff is even referred to with a price point. Maybe I just like to fantasize about owning Burton's Audex Bluetooth jacket ($600), or a bottle of Navan cognac ($39), or the Bowflex Revolution ($2,399). Sad part is is that all the items I just mentioned all came from one article; it was just a parade of stuff I could buy. Part of me is going to miss the parade of consumerism I think. Sigh.
Get In Shape- okay, okay, this one is the resolution that just about everybody makes. Truth be told, I'm not in that bad of shape, but I definitely could be in better shape. I was visiting the gym quite regularly throughout most of 2005 until basketball season started and I started spending more time on the hardwood, but now I need to put forth the effort to not only keep playing basketball, but start going to the gym during those basketball weeks for weight training. I also want to eat a bit better. I want to gain some weight, but I want to gain healthy weight.
Well, that pretty much wraps up my small list of goals for this new year. I figure that if I make them known it will help me keep them because people can always start asking me how my resolutions are going and I definitely want to make progress then so as to not look like a failure.
Once again, Happy New Year and I'll be keeping you up to date on all kinds of shit in 2006. Kick ass!
Secondly, I apologize for the relatively quiet December I hadwith regards to keeping this blog regularly updated. I had an actual busy holiday season this time around. It was kind of nice. Now that things are slowly, but surely, settling down a little bit I can get back into a routine that is comfortable and productive (hopefully).
So, anyway, I thought that I would write a little bit about some of the resolutions that I have made for myself this year. I know that most of you probably think the idea of making resolutions is kind of corny on my part since I'm such an outside-of-the-box kind of thinker, but it has been my experience in the past that resolutions can work.
This year, then, I resolve to...
Write More Often- with so many projects on the go between this blog, my poetry, Sometimes Sinister, and my attempt at a novel which I call Chicken Little: A Novel so far, it's definitely hard to physically sit myself down and write any of this on a regular basis given the demands of my life outside the page.
Stop Reading So Much Junk Publications- junk publications, you ask? I mean stuff that doesn't make me feel enriched after reading it. Even really bad books can give a guy a little bit of enrichment, but what I'm referring to specifically are men's lifestyle magazines like Maxim, FHM, and Stuff. I'll admit that sometimes there are bits and pieces in there that make me laugh, but, as a whole, they do little but make me sad because I wasn't reading something with more to offer, I spent too much money for such a trifle of a publication, and I'm addicted to them for some reason. I always get asked if I get them just for the pictures of starlets in states of semi-undress, but that's not it at all. I could go online and get fully nude women all the time if that was the selling point. I think I'm more addicted to the yuppie male lifestyle that this publications champion. More than half of each issue of those magazines is built around trying to sell you something. It's not just the ad space either, which there is alarming amounts of, but a lot of the regular features are parades of gadgets, the latest offerings from the entertainment industry, and the latest fashions. Why? So that you buy into it all. That's why most of the stuff is even referred to with a price point. Maybe I just like to fantasize about owning Burton's Audex Bluetooth jacket ($600), or a bottle of Navan cognac ($39), or the Bowflex Revolution ($2,399). Sad part is is that all the items I just mentioned all came from one article; it was just a parade of stuff I could buy. Part of me is going to miss the parade of consumerism I think. Sigh.
Get In Shape- okay, okay, this one is the resolution that just about everybody makes. Truth be told, I'm not in that bad of shape, but I definitely could be in better shape. I was visiting the gym quite regularly throughout most of 2005 until basketball season started and I started spending more time on the hardwood, but now I need to put forth the effort to not only keep playing basketball, but start going to the gym during those basketball weeks for weight training. I also want to eat a bit better. I want to gain some weight, but I want to gain healthy weight.
Well, that pretty much wraps up my small list of goals for this new year. I figure that if I make them known it will help me keep them because people can always start asking me how my resolutions are going and I definitely want to make progress then so as to not look like a failure.
Once again, Happy New Year and I'll be keeping you up to date on all kinds of shit in 2006. Kick ass!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
What The Fuck?!?!?!?!?!
Sometimes you'll see an article somewhere that seems to factually incorrect that you start to wonder about the author behind the piece. Was he/she sane at the time of writing it? Was he/she drunk at the time of writing it it? Was he in the midst of becoming a she and was so doped up on anaesthetic that he thought it was a good idea and just start typing a bunch of random shit to take the focus off of his penis evolving surgically into a vagina? Okay, that last one definitely didn't happen. I know that when my junk is getting fucked around with I don't have the presence of mind to even start thinking about writing let alone actually doing it. But I digress.
What we have here is quite possibly the world record for most typos in one published article...
Click here.
Um, Michael, I hate to burst your bubble, but that article was not filled with typos and was actually quite straightforward to read.
I was afraid of that. Did you actually get the gist of what was being said, though?
Well, I, um.....looking back at it now....it seems to be saying that Patrick Swayze is experimenting with rap music....um....what the holy hell?!?!?! That can't be right.
You see? It's got to be the world's biggest collection of typos. There's no fucking way it could be saying that Patrick Swayze is experimenting with rap music.
"Swayze recently said he was experimenting with 'rap rhythms as an emotional uncurrent for ballads.'"
Pinch me, Michael. I'm thinking this is one of those dreams where I show up naked to school. It's got to be. You know? The kind of dream where a bunch of random shit seems to get spliced together? Unicorns and Volkswagens? A hoodie made out of big fat pickles? Patrick Swayze planning on releasing some of his very own rap music? It's got to be a dream.
*Pinch*
I'm afraid not.
Oh dear god! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
What we have here is quite possibly the world record for most typos in one published article...
Click here.
Um, Michael, I hate to burst your bubble, but that article was not filled with typos and was actually quite straightforward to read.
I was afraid of that. Did you actually get the gist of what was being said, though?
Well, I, um.....looking back at it now....it seems to be saying that Patrick Swayze is experimenting with rap music....um....what the holy hell?!?!?! That can't be right.
You see? It's got to be the world's biggest collection of typos. There's no fucking way it could be saying that Patrick Swayze is experimenting with rap music.
"Swayze recently said he was experimenting with 'rap rhythms as an emotional uncurrent for ballads.'"
Pinch me, Michael. I'm thinking this is one of those dreams where I show up naked to school. It's got to be. You know? The kind of dream where a bunch of random shit seems to get spliced together? Unicorns and Volkswagens? A hoodie made out of big fat pickles? Patrick Swayze planning on releasing some of his very own rap music? It's got to be a dream.
*Pinch*
I'm afraid not.
Oh dear god! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Mickey D's
Click here.
Starting very soon at McDonald's restaurants you will be able to find the nutrition facts about most of their foodstuffs printed right on the package. That's right, I shit you not. You will, in fact, be able to check out how many calories are being consumed with every Big Mac as you are eating a Big Mac.
And you know what? Good for them. It indicates a desire on the part of the multinational to improve its image. Where once it was seen as a provider of "food" with questionable nutritional content it will now be seen as a provider of "food" with questionable nutritional content, but with the nutritional information printed on the packaging.
What I don't get is why there's such a big fucking deal over the nutritional content being printed at all. The fact that this is news on MSNBC means it's newsworthy to somebody. I mean it's not like McDonald's "food" is healthy. It was clearly demonstrated in Supersize Me. Is having the nutritional information suddenly going to make a big fucking difference to the people who eat at McDonald's?
How many people do you see driving around looking for a place to eat and basing their decision on an eatery on whether or not said eatery provides a nutritional content information box on the packaging?
Well, that documentary made me swear off McDonald's food, but I am hungry and they now print their nutritional content so it must be better. Kids, we're going to McDonald's!
That shit doesn't happen. Sorry, Mickey D's.
Nutritonal content information on fast food packaging is a moot point. If you eat fast food you know that it's not healthy. What the fuck do you care if you know specifically how unhealthy it is for you? If the lack of nutrition on most of a fast food restaurant menu really comes as a shocker to you then you should really continue to chow down on that stuff because you are a liability to humanity with all that ignorance. Maybe an early fast food funeral would do the species a lot of good in your case.
Also, why the fuck unveil the nutritional content information at the fucking Olympics? Wow, that should make for a headline. Today in the news, opening ceremonies for the 2006 winter Olympics in Turin, Italy were held. The event brings together the world in a celebration of sports and athletics. Also, some fast food chain is using this event as a springboard for launching nutritional content information on their artery-clogging hamburgers. Way to go world! I know if there's one thing that makes me want to eat a lot of Big Macs and large fries it's watching athletes in their prime competing for gold at the Olympics. Sadly, that's probably how it's going to be marketed. Even sadder is that it will probably work as far as marketing ploys go. Doesn't anybody watch athletics anymore and get inspired to be more athletic?
Apparently not.
Starting very soon at McDonald's restaurants you will be able to find the nutrition facts about most of their foodstuffs printed right on the package. That's right, I shit you not. You will, in fact, be able to check out how many calories are being consumed with every Big Mac as you are eating a Big Mac.
And you know what? Good for them. It indicates a desire on the part of the multinational to improve its image. Where once it was seen as a provider of "food" with questionable nutritional content it will now be seen as a provider of "food" with questionable nutritional content, but with the nutritional information printed on the packaging.
What I don't get is why there's such a big fucking deal over the nutritional content being printed at all. The fact that this is news on MSNBC means it's newsworthy to somebody. I mean it's not like McDonald's "food" is healthy. It was clearly demonstrated in Supersize Me. Is having the nutritional information suddenly going to make a big fucking difference to the people who eat at McDonald's?
How many people do you see driving around looking for a place to eat and basing their decision on an eatery on whether or not said eatery provides a nutritional content information box on the packaging?
Well, that documentary made me swear off McDonald's food, but I am hungry and they now print their nutritional content so it must be better. Kids, we're going to McDonald's!
That shit doesn't happen. Sorry, Mickey D's.
Nutritonal content information on fast food packaging is a moot point. If you eat fast food you know that it's not healthy. What the fuck do you care if you know specifically how unhealthy it is for you? If the lack of nutrition on most of a fast food restaurant menu really comes as a shocker to you then you should really continue to chow down on that stuff because you are a liability to humanity with all that ignorance. Maybe an early fast food funeral would do the species a lot of good in your case.
Also, why the fuck unveil the nutritional content information at the fucking Olympics? Wow, that should make for a headline. Today in the news, opening ceremonies for the 2006 winter Olympics in Turin, Italy were held. The event brings together the world in a celebration of sports and athletics. Also, some fast food chain is using this event as a springboard for launching nutritional content information on their artery-clogging hamburgers. Way to go world! I know if there's one thing that makes me want to eat a lot of Big Macs and large fries it's watching athletes in their prime competing for gold at the Olympics. Sadly, that's probably how it's going to be marketed. Even sadder is that it will probably work as far as marketing ploys go. Doesn't anybody watch athletics anymore and get inspired to be more athletic?
Apparently not.
Maw
Maw
swear you grow out
of my fingernails.
I’m clawing you off on
chalk boards and
hearing your screech shat
ter silences deftly a
diamond scratching glass.
What I don’t eat of you
wets my lips quench
es thirst where I lick
with a pointed tongue taste
last night’s wine and
a diet rich with fruit sweet
ness following every
stroke.
Feel you in the lush for
est of my hair dark and myster
ious coating chutes and
making undergrowth
in the shrubs and berries you
run wild through the barrows of
my phrenology and slide
gracefully down in droplets of my
sweat.
And what I don’t tell you is
that I’ve considered changing
my name to yours the
name in loopy neon letters
shining on the insides of my eye
lids pilot of this vessel reas
on for this being
guiding me down a jaded path
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Lunar Park By: Bret Easton Ellis
A few days ago I finally completed my reading of Bret Easton Ellis' latest novel Lunar Park. Having read a couple of his earlier novels, Less Than Zero and American Psycho, I was already a bit of a fan of work and I went into my reading of this one with certain expectations:1.) This book would portray the lifestyles of the upper-class in a rather negative light.
2.) There would be a lot of drug use on the part of the characters.
3.) Sex scenes would be very graphic and almost hard to read.
And you know what?
I think that with Lunar Park, Bret Easton Ellis took those expectations that I had of his work and turned them on their heads. What he has done has been to take some of the conventions that he subscribes to and craft a rather supernatural thriller of a book.
What I love most is how he has taken himself, Bret Easton Ellis, the novelist, and placed himself as the protagonist of the story, a man who is trying to build a life with what is, by and large, a surrogate family. Married to a movie star, an actual live-in father to two children, he is working on establishing a domestic lifestyle after years of reckless indulgence and controversy. It is that controversy, though, that seems to manifest itself in apparitions that begin to creep up around Bret's life as the novel progresses. I won't go into great detail as to what manifests itself so as to not spoil the surprises should you decide to give this book a read yourself, but above all else it should be noted that Ellis takes his undeniable writing style and applies it in a way that I haven't seen him apply it before. It's refreshing to read. He does new things with his old tricks. For example, mixing the elements of his real life with a fictitious world blurs that barrier between what I know is real and isn't real until I can suspend my disbelief easily, alarmingly so. He seems to reveal a lot about himself insofar as the specifics of his life and just throws in the supernatural bits and you can't help but question sometimes, Is any of this real? If so, how much?
If there is one downside to the book it's that once the climax hits and Ellis begins the denouement begins I found myself still left with a lot of questions. A few of them never really get resolved. I have to admit, though, that because this is a book that is about the supernatural it's not necessary for Ellis to explain precisely what happens or why it happens. As a reader I'm experience the story through his eyes and, in all likelihood, he knows about as much about the why's and how's of the supernatural happenings around him as I do. It makes for a book that is genuinely creepy to read at some points.
I'm not sure how I would rank Lunar Park against the other Bret Easton Ellis books I've read and I'm not sure if it would even be fair of me to do so. It's still a book that I found to be very enjoyable to read and I would highly recommend to anybody who's in the mood for a good book.
Also, the last couple of pages are some of Ellis' best writing. There is one monster of a paragraph that is written in such a way that it could easily be taken out of its context and read as, say, a prose, poem. Actually, as I was reading that monster I stopped about three sentences in and decided to go back and start reading it over again, this time out loud as I would a poem. It was almost worth the price of admission alone, for me anyway.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
The Bottom Ten, December 2005
10.)The FTC- Wow! It's so great to live in a world where the FTC has finally taken credit for their "effective" stemming of the shit-tide that is spam. "Effective" to the FTC means 62% more spam in the last year alone. Does anybody ever actually check the results before they declare themselves victorious anymore. This reeks of GWB landing on the aircraft carrier and making that speech in front of the Mission Accomplished banner regarding the success in Iraq. I bet the FTC even had that same banner flown in for their press conference.
9.)The Canadian Supreme Court- The Supreme Court of Canada is currently mulling over the legality of swingers' clubs. What's a swingers' club, you ask? Well, it's a club where a bunch of adults go to participate in group sex acts or swap partners or do whatever else their kinky minds can think of. Newflash Canada: consenting adults fucking is legal. Consenting adults fucking in groups? Still legal! Okay, I can see the problem lying in the fact with what constitutes public indecency, but I really don't think the kind of people who go to swingers' clubs are the kind of people who think anything is indecent. So why the fuck not let them go about their business of fucking? Don't you have something more vital to do than stick your gavels where they don't belong?
8.) "People Are Still Having Sex" by: La Tour- I fucking hate it when I'm talking about something that pisses me off and a shitty one-hit-wonder from the 90's gets stuck in my head. Damn you La Tour! Damn you!
7.) Wal-Mart Sex Toys- I'll take words that don't belong together for $500, Alex. Answer: This greedy multinational with it's tentacles squeezing the life out of the world is entering the sex toy market. What is Wal-Mart? That's right. Cock rings and 13 inch wall-mounted dildos are coming to a Wal-Mart near you. It's funny that here in Canada we can't even make up our minds about whether or not groups of consenting adults can fuck legally, but you can bet your fucking ass we'll try to market anal lubricants and fleshlights to the Wal-Mart clientele. Welcome to topsy-turvy world, population: us. It's sad that the big boxes are now going to force the mom-and-pop "neck massager" stores out of business and, in turn, make fucking suddenly less cool. Discount anal beads, anyone?
6.) Flamboyant Celebrity Bachelor Parties- Bachelor parties by definition are supposed to scuzzy, sleazy affairs that usually end with multiple arrests and mysterious cases of "the herpes." I don't know what the fuck Elton John did, but that sure as shit wasn't a bachelor party.
5.) Prudes- "Oh my god! I can't believe how morally reprehensible I find it that your newspaper would run a story about a snow penis. I found the photo of the snowy phallus to be the most offensive thing I have ever seen! For shame!" I know what you mean, people. After reading the article about the snow sculpture of a penis and the controversy it created I felt compelled to go out and start raping people because that's what images of snow sculptures of penises do to my highly impressionable mind. Don't worry, I fought that snowy urge by dousing my eyes with gasoline and setting them on fire so those filthy thoughts could no longer be induced by that pornographic imagery. I especially love the letter that states, "May God damn this newspaper for running the photo of the snow penis." My first thought was, Yep, I'm sure God has nothing more important to do in this world right now than smite some newspaper for its story on a freakin' snow sculpture.
4.) Home Town Pride- Arnold Schwarzeneggar severed his ties with his home town in Austria after a number of officials from his town criticized the Terminator for his execution of Stanley Tookie Williams. You'd think that a man of Arnold's physical prowess would be a little less of a bitch when somebody back home makes a disparaging comment about him.
3.) Too Many Hyperlinks- I fucking hate websites that throw hyperlink after hyperlink at you with "witty" banter as some sort of segue between said hyperlinks. It reeks of effort.
2.) Fertilizer- Okay, I don't hate fertilizer just the fucking irresponsible abusive asshole parents who would make their four-year-old daughter drink the stuff down. People like this should be sterilized so they never raise children again. They have no fucking clue as to what it is they are doing and they are lowering the standards by which humanity conducts itself. No fucking excuse for this fucking behavior whatsoever.
1.) Santa Claus- At what age can you start to tell your children about the myth of Santa Claus and the rampant commercialization of the holiday season? It would all seem much easier to give your child the gift of cynicism than to track down a Ferby. Plus the jolly old elf never got me Hungry, Hungry Hippos and I never forgave him.
9.)The Canadian Supreme Court- The Supreme Court of Canada is currently mulling over the legality of swingers' clubs. What's a swingers' club, you ask? Well, it's a club where a bunch of adults go to participate in group sex acts or swap partners or do whatever else their kinky minds can think of. Newflash Canada: consenting adults fucking is legal. Consenting adults fucking in groups? Still legal! Okay, I can see the problem lying in the fact with what constitutes public indecency, but I really don't think the kind of people who go to swingers' clubs are the kind of people who think anything is indecent. So why the fuck not let them go about their business of fucking? Don't you have something more vital to do than stick your gavels where they don't belong?
8.) "People Are Still Having Sex" by: La Tour- I fucking hate it when I'm talking about something that pisses me off and a shitty one-hit-wonder from the 90's gets stuck in my head. Damn you La Tour! Damn you!
7.) Wal-Mart Sex Toys- I'll take words that don't belong together for $500, Alex. Answer: This greedy multinational with it's tentacles squeezing the life out of the world is entering the sex toy market. What is Wal-Mart? That's right. Cock rings and 13 inch wall-mounted dildos are coming to a Wal-Mart near you. It's funny that here in Canada we can't even make up our minds about whether or not groups of consenting adults can fuck legally, but you can bet your fucking ass we'll try to market anal lubricants and fleshlights to the Wal-Mart clientele. Welcome to topsy-turvy world, population: us. It's sad that the big boxes are now going to force the mom-and-pop "neck massager" stores out of business and, in turn, make fucking suddenly less cool. Discount anal beads, anyone?
6.) Flamboyant Celebrity Bachelor Parties- Bachelor parties by definition are supposed to scuzzy, sleazy affairs that usually end with multiple arrests and mysterious cases of "the herpes." I don't know what the fuck Elton John did, but that sure as shit wasn't a bachelor party.
5.) Prudes- "Oh my god! I can't believe how morally reprehensible I find it that your newspaper would run a story about a snow penis. I found the photo of the snowy phallus to be the most offensive thing I have ever seen! For shame!" I know what you mean, people. After reading the article about the snow sculpture of a penis and the controversy it created I felt compelled to go out and start raping people because that's what images of snow sculptures of penises do to my highly impressionable mind. Don't worry, I fought that snowy urge by dousing my eyes with gasoline and setting them on fire so those filthy thoughts could no longer be induced by that pornographic imagery. I especially love the letter that states, "May God damn this newspaper for running the photo of the snow penis." My first thought was, Yep, I'm sure God has nothing more important to do in this world right now than smite some newspaper for its story on a freakin' snow sculpture.
4.) Home Town Pride- Arnold Schwarzeneggar severed his ties with his home town in Austria after a number of officials from his town criticized the Terminator for his execution of Stanley Tookie Williams. You'd think that a man of Arnold's physical prowess would be a little less of a bitch when somebody back home makes a disparaging comment about him.
3.) Too Many Hyperlinks- I fucking hate websites that throw hyperlink after hyperlink at you with "witty" banter as some sort of segue between said hyperlinks. It reeks of effort.
2.) Fertilizer- Okay, I don't hate fertilizer just the fucking irresponsible abusive asshole parents who would make their four-year-old daughter drink the stuff down. People like this should be sterilized so they never raise children again. They have no fucking clue as to what it is they are doing and they are lowering the standards by which humanity conducts itself. No fucking excuse for this fucking behavior whatsoever.
1.) Santa Claus- At what age can you start to tell your children about the myth of Santa Claus and the rampant commercialization of the holiday season? It would all seem much easier to give your child the gift of cynicism than to track down a Ferby. Plus the jolly old elf never got me Hungry, Hungry Hippos and I never forgave him.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Classic Michael Appleby
Last week I performed "Vitriol" as a means of wrapping up the latest reading series by The Raving Poets. Here is the poem for those of you who aren't familiar with it. I will be back to my regular posting habits shortly. The past few days have been rather hectic and my sleeping patterns have been all over the map.
Vitriol
Fuck your tyrants, your pyros, the church spire steeples, the holier-than-thou hard dick like a cross indoctrinating peoples.
Fuck your five speed, pneumatic, microchipped, long-range dildonic devices, your intercontinental ballistic rectal rooter arms race strap-on motives.
Fuck your car, your hair, your icy blue-eyed stare, your mom if she cares, your planet if you dare.
Fuck your telescopic knee brace, broken down poker face homoerotic histrionics, Parliament Hill synonymy with ninja stealth boob job.
Fuck your phony cities of glass licking my ass, acerbic acroters applying the rim jobs on eternity, poke you in the eye with phallic imagery.
Fuck your credit card limit statements stuffing the mailboxes; the mailman’s arm pumping with pornstar precision.
Fuck your need for more speed, more tits, bigger dicks.
Fuck your procreation if the end result is just like you.
Fuck your recyclable telekinetic wishes, your dreams of unaided flight, your ideals of a bubblegum pop princess balloon.
Fuck your celebrity idolatry anal sex banter, your J.Lo hourglass hugging Brady Bunch trousers.
Fuck your statues of people, your history dizzy disease.
Fuck your alternative systems of homeopathy, your psychotic, homeostatic, armed to the braced teeth, low carb Atkins drink of doom.
Fuck your domestic origami, orgasms of renovate-ativity, your desires for dementia, schizophrenic duvet covers sheltering inability.
Fuck your forty-dollar two-piece birthday suit, your navel gazing, placenta-wet perfectly sculpted body.
Fuck your sex if it isn’t made kinky.
Fuck your commemorative plates, your dinner of battery heated gopher road kill du jour.
Fuck your matriarchal maitre d’, dressed to the sevens, Seven-11, dressed to the nines. 1 billion people starving. The other five smearing their genitals with peanut butter for dogs’ licking.
Fuck your fake love of fake arts, your pompous Pompadour pomander, pomegranate seed sperm, proliferate that shit sperm, hit-you-on-the-chin sperm.
Fuck your modification mortifications, your custom flame job on a penile implant, unhinged meat tube slapping you in the face.
Fuck your circus-time clowns, your wartime crowds, your mushroom clouds.
Fuck your family network of lies.
Fuck your Double-You Bush, your tree, your need to be green, your hip to the scene, your lists of currently has-been.
Fuck your executive privilege, balanced precariously on a high ledge, suicidal fuck fist raised to the heavens.
Fuck the feeling of being the last rebel.
Fuck the hopelessness against the empire.
Fuck George Lucas for making me think this could be Star Wars.
Fuck your lines of Pepsi, your love of being alert, your need to document it all, your diesel powered whisk stirred memento vat.
Fuck your word if your word is “YES!” when I’m asking you if you’re loving it wearing that Ronald McDonald vest.
Fuck your sleepless nights of cookie cutter x-ray scans.
Fuck your dreamless days of Richard Hamilton tans.
Fuck your institutionalized intentions intent on interns. All I do is cry.
Fuck your Windsor Pilates Tae-Bo.
Fuck your fuckee no more.
Vitriol
Fuck your tyrants, your pyros, the church spire steeples, the holier-than-thou hard dick like a cross indoctrinating peoples.
Fuck your five speed, pneumatic, microchipped, long-range dildonic devices, your intercontinental ballistic rectal rooter arms race strap-on motives.
Fuck your car, your hair, your icy blue-eyed stare, your mom if she cares, your planet if you dare.
Fuck your telescopic knee brace, broken down poker face homoerotic histrionics, Parliament Hill synonymy with ninja stealth boob job.
Fuck your phony cities of glass licking my ass, acerbic acroters applying the rim jobs on eternity, poke you in the eye with phallic imagery.
Fuck your credit card limit statements stuffing the mailboxes; the mailman’s arm pumping with pornstar precision.
Fuck your need for more speed, more tits, bigger dicks.
Fuck your procreation if the end result is just like you.
Fuck your recyclable telekinetic wishes, your dreams of unaided flight, your ideals of a bubblegum pop princess balloon.
Fuck your celebrity idolatry anal sex banter, your J.Lo hourglass hugging Brady Bunch trousers.
Fuck your statues of people, your history dizzy disease.
Fuck your alternative systems of homeopathy, your psychotic, homeostatic, armed to the braced teeth, low carb Atkins drink of doom.
Fuck your domestic origami, orgasms of renovate-ativity, your desires for dementia, schizophrenic duvet covers sheltering inability.
Fuck your forty-dollar two-piece birthday suit, your navel gazing, placenta-wet perfectly sculpted body.
Fuck your sex if it isn’t made kinky.
Fuck your commemorative plates, your dinner of battery heated gopher road kill du jour.
Fuck your matriarchal maitre d’, dressed to the sevens, Seven-11, dressed to the nines. 1 billion people starving. The other five smearing their genitals with peanut butter for dogs’ licking.
Fuck your fake love of fake arts, your pompous Pompadour pomander, pomegranate seed sperm, proliferate that shit sperm, hit-you-on-the-chin sperm.
Fuck your modification mortifications, your custom flame job on a penile implant, unhinged meat tube slapping you in the face.
Fuck your circus-time clowns, your wartime crowds, your mushroom clouds.
Fuck your family network of lies.
Fuck your Double-You Bush, your tree, your need to be green, your hip to the scene, your lists of currently has-been.
Fuck your executive privilege, balanced precariously on a high ledge, suicidal fuck fist raised to the heavens.
Fuck the feeling of being the last rebel.
Fuck the hopelessness against the empire.
Fuck George Lucas for making me think this could be Star Wars.
Fuck your lines of Pepsi, your love of being alert, your need to document it all, your diesel powered whisk stirred memento vat.
Fuck your word if your word is “YES!” when I’m asking you if you’re loving it wearing that Ronald McDonald vest.
Fuck your sleepless nights of cookie cutter x-ray scans.
Fuck your dreamless days of Richard Hamilton tans.
Fuck your institutionalized intentions intent on interns. All I do is cry.
Fuck your Windsor Pilates Tae-Bo.
Fuck your fuckee no more.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
The Post In Which Michael Appleby Contemplates The Necessity To Vote In Federal Elections
For those of you who aren't aware of this, Canada is in the grips of not only Christmas fever, but also Federal Election Fever. It's some sort of double whammy because, on one hand, we can't stop shopping, and on the other hand, we can't stop listening to politicians. It's the most wonderful time of the year!
It was pretty much bound to happen. I saw this coming the last time we had a federal election. Paul Martin was burdened right from the start with the whole sponsorship scandal that plagued Jean Chretien's liberals during the last administration. It didn't take a fucking rocket scientist to see that only having a minority government would lead to a vote of non-confidence sooner or later. Things are just playing out like you would expect them to.
But what bugs the shit out of me during any federal election are the damn ad campaigns these would-be leaders flood the airwaves with. Holy shit!
So far my pick for the worst ad of the bunch is Stephen Harper's ad that's designed to depict him as a leader who plans on being tough on crime. Why do I hate the fucking ad so much? For starters it has him on some sort of talk show set, sitting behind a desk, but nowhere in the whole ad is this talk show premise even developed. All it has is some bitter old woman complaining about crime in a prepared video statement, Stephen Harper watching said video with the talk show host, and then saying that he's going to be tough on crime. News flash Stephen: there isn't a candidate in the whole damn election who's going to promise to be soft on crime! Fuck! Thanks for the update Stephen, you took valuable ad space that could have been used for scantily clad women selling me beer to tell me that some bitter old hag's wish for a leader who is tough on crime could come true if the country elects you.
And I'm sure the bitter old woman isn't a hag, but come on! Can't you get Stephen Harper to come up with something more substantial than, "I will be tough on crime." Yawn! That's an angry yawn, Mr. Harper!
So Michael, I guess that means you're a Paul Martin guy, huh?
Fuck no! There's a reason why he got the vote of non-confidence against him. He really hasn't been a good leader for this country. He hasn't been the worst, but just far from being good. I will say that of the major leaders so far I am leaning most toward voting for the Liberals if only because Paul Martin's ads haven't sucked as much donkey cock as his opponents. Whoever wins this election will likely face a vote of non-confidence in the near future and we will, once again, be holding another federal election in which a stalemate will be declared.
Have you seen the polls, Canada? Fuck, not one guy can get a definitive lead! Why is that? Can't we get one guy to run whom we like enough as a group to give him a good solid lead. This going to the voting stations every year is bullshit and it's enough to make a guy not want to vote anymore.
One thing that I do love about this election, though, is how all the candidates seem to have this, "It's us against them," attitude. "Them" referring to the United States. Why do I love it? Well, nobody is really that stupid, are they? Yeah, some of American policy has been bad for the world and for Canada, but it's so hip to be anti-American right now in Canadian politics that I love watching the potential Prime Ministers go through all the rigamarole of thumping their chests and saying "I hate GWB this. I hate GWB that. Softwood lumber demands need to be met!" But you know what? Secretly they all kiss America's ass because they are THE superpower.
So what's the point of this post? I suppose I just wanted to vent about the state of Canadian federal politics. I hate being up in the air on whether or not I want to vote. I don't really like any of the candidates and I'm almost 100% positive that whoever wins is going to win a minority government, which puts us right back to where we'll be in January. Sometimes democracy is a bitch! Fuck!
Also I really, really hate that Stephen Harper ad. I feel dumber each time I see it. I don't see how making a promise like that could possibly help him get voters. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that if a candidate made all the ludicrous promises like "going softer on crime," "hurting the economy," or "establishing Canada as a military nation," I would more likely vote for that candidate because he clearly has a twisted sense of humor.
It was pretty much bound to happen. I saw this coming the last time we had a federal election. Paul Martin was burdened right from the start with the whole sponsorship scandal that plagued Jean Chretien's liberals during the last administration. It didn't take a fucking rocket scientist to see that only having a minority government would lead to a vote of non-confidence sooner or later. Things are just playing out like you would expect them to.
But what bugs the shit out of me during any federal election are the damn ad campaigns these would-be leaders flood the airwaves with. Holy shit!
So far my pick for the worst ad of the bunch is Stephen Harper's ad that's designed to depict him as a leader who plans on being tough on crime. Why do I hate the fucking ad so much? For starters it has him on some sort of talk show set, sitting behind a desk, but nowhere in the whole ad is this talk show premise even developed. All it has is some bitter old woman complaining about crime in a prepared video statement, Stephen Harper watching said video with the talk show host, and then saying that he's going to be tough on crime. News flash Stephen: there isn't a candidate in the whole damn election who's going to promise to be soft on crime! Fuck! Thanks for the update Stephen, you took valuable ad space that could have been used for scantily clad women selling me beer to tell me that some bitter old hag's wish for a leader who is tough on crime could come true if the country elects you.
And I'm sure the bitter old woman isn't a hag, but come on! Can't you get Stephen Harper to come up with something more substantial than, "I will be tough on crime." Yawn! That's an angry yawn, Mr. Harper!
So Michael, I guess that means you're a Paul Martin guy, huh?
Fuck no! There's a reason why he got the vote of non-confidence against him. He really hasn't been a good leader for this country. He hasn't been the worst, but just far from being good. I will say that of the major leaders so far I am leaning most toward voting for the Liberals if only because Paul Martin's ads haven't sucked as much donkey cock as his opponents. Whoever wins this election will likely face a vote of non-confidence in the near future and we will, once again, be holding another federal election in which a stalemate will be declared.
Have you seen the polls, Canada? Fuck, not one guy can get a definitive lead! Why is that? Can't we get one guy to run whom we like enough as a group to give him a good solid lead. This going to the voting stations every year is bullshit and it's enough to make a guy not want to vote anymore.
One thing that I do love about this election, though, is how all the candidates seem to have this, "It's us against them," attitude. "Them" referring to the United States. Why do I love it? Well, nobody is really that stupid, are they? Yeah, some of American policy has been bad for the world and for Canada, but it's so hip to be anti-American right now in Canadian politics that I love watching the potential Prime Ministers go through all the rigamarole of thumping their chests and saying "I hate GWB this. I hate GWB that. Softwood lumber demands need to be met!" But you know what? Secretly they all kiss America's ass because they are THE superpower.
So what's the point of this post? I suppose I just wanted to vent about the state of Canadian federal politics. I hate being up in the air on whether or not I want to vote. I don't really like any of the candidates and I'm almost 100% positive that whoever wins is going to win a minority government, which puts us right back to where we'll be in January. Sometimes democracy is a bitch! Fuck!
Also I really, really hate that Stephen Harper ad. I feel dumber each time I see it. I don't see how making a promise like that could possibly help him get voters. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that if a candidate made all the ludicrous promises like "going softer on crime," "hurting the economy," or "establishing Canada as a military nation," I would more likely vote for that candidate because he clearly has a twisted sense of humor.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Classic Michael Appleby
Sorry States
She tells me that she wants to come over to sleep. Just let her grab her toothbrush and she will be right over. And I am immediately concerned about the state of my place. It’s too messy. It’s too much of a mess. There are socks and jeans, old t-shirts, and boxer shorts strewn all over the floor. A haphazard congregation of empty bottles. Dust that has settled enough to develop its own layer of dust. Then there is me who has not shaved in three days. There is me who has been lounging around in a bathrobe all day. There is me who is messy hair, pizza breath, and needing to exfoliate.
This is why the mother’s proverb suggests to always wear clean underwear.
Jesus, how long could it take her to grab her toothbrush? How long will it take for her to drive here? There just isn’t enough time for proper preparation and yet my whole life seems to have been the endless prep work to accommodate this woman, this feminine presence.
Dilemma: Do I ready myself with a quick shower, a shave, brush of teeth, combing the hair, slapping on some cologne? Or do I ready this hovel and make it woman-worthy, comfortable and tidy, or as close to it as I can; wash the windows, pick up the clothes, actually wipe away some of the dust from my life?
By time she arrives neither this house nor I is presentable. Address and addressee are complete messes that mirror each other.
And upon apologizing for our sorry states I am quickly rebuked:
“I don’t date your house or the hair on your head. Your pell-mell pantry is not what I lose myself in. It’s not the excess of posters, piles of books, or blemished skin that could make me weep.
It’s you.”
She tells me that she wants to come over to sleep. Just let her grab her toothbrush and she will be right over. And I am immediately concerned about the state of my place. It’s too messy. It’s too much of a mess. There are socks and jeans, old t-shirts, and boxer shorts strewn all over the floor. A haphazard congregation of empty bottles. Dust that has settled enough to develop its own layer of dust. Then there is me who has not shaved in three days. There is me who has been lounging around in a bathrobe all day. There is me who is messy hair, pizza breath, and needing to exfoliate.
This is why the mother’s proverb suggests to always wear clean underwear.
Jesus, how long could it take her to grab her toothbrush? How long will it take for her to drive here? There just isn’t enough time for proper preparation and yet my whole life seems to have been the endless prep work to accommodate this woman, this feminine presence.
Dilemma: Do I ready myself with a quick shower, a shave, brush of teeth, combing the hair, slapping on some cologne? Or do I ready this hovel and make it woman-worthy, comfortable and tidy, or as close to it as I can; wash the windows, pick up the clothes, actually wipe away some of the dust from my life?
By time she arrives neither this house nor I is presentable. Address and addressee are complete messes that mirror each other.
And upon apologizing for our sorry states I am quickly rebuked:
“I don’t date your house or the hair on your head. Your pell-mell pantry is not what I lose myself in. It’s not the excess of posters, piles of books, or blemished skin that could make me weep.
It’s you.”
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
"Gimme Food, Gimme Fire"
Reposted from the Raving Poets message board. Mike Gravel let's us know...
The Raving Poets: Gimme Food, Gimme Fire.
A Raving Poets Food Drive for the Edmonton Food Bank. (http://www.edmontonsfoodbank.com/webiq/)
Wednesday, December 14, 2005.
Yianni's Taverna, 10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton. 8:00pm.
This is our last show of the year. The Food Bank needs everyone's help at this time of year ( year-round for that matter). Come on down for some great fellowshipping, some amazing verse, and some Christmas goodwill.
This event will be a twenty-reader open mic as always. Everyone attending the event is encouraged to bring a donation. Any poet wishing to read that evening MUST bring a donation for the Food Bank. That's mandatory. No donation, no chance to read. And don't be a skinflint either. A $10.00 minimum donation (in either food or cash) is suggested. A single box of Kraft Dinner or two cans of beans is simply not acceptable. Cash donations will be accepted in lieu of a food donation.
See y'all down there!
The Raving Poets: Gimme Food, Gimme Fire.
A Raving Poets Food Drive for the Edmonton Food Bank. (http://www.edmontonsfoodbank.com/webiq/)
Wednesday, December 14, 2005.
Yianni's Taverna, 10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton. 8:00pm.
This is our last show of the year. The Food Bank needs everyone's help at this time of year ( year-round for that matter). Come on down for some great fellowshipping, some amazing verse, and some Christmas goodwill.
This event will be a twenty-reader open mic as always. Everyone attending the event is encouraged to bring a donation. Any poet wishing to read that evening MUST bring a donation for the Food Bank. That's mandatory. No donation, no chance to read. And don't be a skinflint either. A $10.00 minimum donation (in either food or cash) is suggested. A single box of Kraft Dinner or two cans of beans is simply not acceptable. Cash donations will be accepted in lieu of a food donation.
See y'all down there!
The Most Important Picture Of All
Thank you, Trudy, once again. You were a great hostess and you must be a hell of a housekeeper if you had to contend with this mess.
Recovering From The Weekend
It's Tuesday already and I still feel like I'm recovering from the weekend. My friends and I had our annual Christmas dinner/party this past weekend at Trudy's house in safe, comfortable St. Albert. But just for that one night I think that our party made it that much more dangerous. Let's see some of the pictures. I had about 78 pictures on my digital camera by the end of the night and there are maybe four of them that I remember taking. There are also some pictures of us dropping trow and mooning for the camera which I've tastefully excised from the pictures here as that was a lot of pasty white ass to take in in one sitting. Here are some of the better pictures...
Jordan and Lori showing off Lori's winnings from the mini poker tournament that we had.
Ian is drunk and apparently maniacally so.
Darcy and Jay pose together. Darcy needs to work on his rock and roll look, though.
Jordan and our lovely hostess for the evening Trudy.
Lori and Brandon giving their reviews.
Playing Shrek Operation for drinks? Has that ever been a good idea?
Nadine is the night's first casualty after failing to successfully remove Shrek's tibia. Weak. I may not have graduated medical school, but I could at least remove a tibia from an ogre.
Jordan removes a tibia while Cory and Jay look on. See, Nadine? Was that so hard?
Yours truly takes another crack at removing a tibia. Why so many tibias you ask? Because Shrek has 17 of them because he's an ogre. Duh. Oh crap I hit the side. Now it's time for another shot. I guess Nadine was right. This does get kind of hard after you've been drinking for a while.
So after all the drinking game madness and poker many of us just passed out and slept over at Trudy's. Ah Christmas, it's a most wonderful time of the year.
Jordan and Lori showing off Lori's winnings from the mini poker tournament that we had.
Ian is drunk and apparently maniacally so.
Darcy and Jay pose together. Darcy needs to work on his rock and roll look, though.
Jordan and our lovely hostess for the evening Trudy.
Lori and Brandon giving their reviews.
Playing Shrek Operation for drinks? Has that ever been a good idea?
Nadine is the night's first casualty after failing to successfully remove Shrek's tibia. Weak. I may not have graduated medical school, but I could at least remove a tibia from an ogre.
Jordan removes a tibia while Cory and Jay look on. See, Nadine? Was that so hard?
Yours truly takes another crack at removing a tibia. Why so many tibias you ask? Because Shrek has 17 of them because he's an ogre. Duh. Oh crap I hit the side. Now it's time for another shot. I guess Nadine was right. This does get kind of hard after you've been drinking for a while.
So after all the drinking game madness and poker many of us just passed out and slept over at Trudy's. Ah Christmas, it's a most wonderful time of the year.
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