Saturday, December 31, 2005
As we bid farewell to 2005 I'd like to leave you with a few of my personal favorite pics from the past 12 months and what was my 1st post on this blasted gizmo. It was almost a year ago when I still had no idea what I was getting myself in to.
1) Pottahawk: The picture says it all.
2) Jerry Casby defeated in Mayoral re-election bid.
3) The Mayor in socks and sandals is one thing, but the Mayor in Hobbit feet.....priceless.
4) Fat Elvis camel toe? It doesn't get any better.
5) Self portrait.
Who am I? (Jan. 5th 2005)
I don’t know for sure. I am constantly evolving. Trying new things. Stuff that terrifies , yet entices me. Blogs for instance. But...the hard facts. Incessant teen trapped in a middle aged body. Off work for the winter so I must write, write, write. Sexual thoughts every 4.6 seconds. An aspiring author when the erotic thoughts don’t intervene. I have great friends which I guess makes me one too.
Physically, I have all my own teeth, as can be witnessed through smile or scowl. I still posses all my own dark hair, but now with a touch of gray and receding slightly. I’m tall and not hard to look at, yet I’ve always been slightly overweight, fighting that lightbulb profile in an ongoing battle in the wasteland.
I’m easy going, yet with a vicious temper if the right buttons are pushed. Humorous, yet moody. Well-intentioned, but versed in the talents of firmly lodging my foot in my mouth. Reliable and loyal, unless betrayed. A dreamer, but a realist. A good worker, who also knows the value of taking it easy. I’m a nail biter and a low talker, who will flip his underwear on occasion to get an extra day before doing laundry.
Basically I’m not an over-achiever. I’m just the average guy. A point that is more disappointing to me, than those around me. That pretty much sums it up.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Technically it’s tomorrow that the Mayor’s Blog in Mitchieville celebrates the first year of existence, but what the hell.
Sorry about the cake Mayor. It was all they had. It was a busy week for kid's parties and they were all out of the tits and ass cakes. It was either this or My Little Pony and I know you are still suffering the shell shock of the "My Little Pony 2001 incident."
I’m looking forward to another year of the outrageous and the asinine in Mitchieville. Cheers for 2006 my brother.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The following links have to be the best, hands down.
So your parents are dead
Don’t cheat yourself from letting the milk squirt out your nose. Go and check them out.
Over the past year I have posted many excerpts not only from my new manuscript, Handmade Heart, but past novels, The Limits of Respectability, and Center of the Universe, as well.
I have always tried to treat this blog with the same tongue-in-ass approach as I do when I write. All this means is, you’ll either be disgusted by my work, or laugh while you're being disgusted by my work. It's that simple.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
This week I planned on reliving some of my favorite blogs from 2005. Now I realize the Mayor is doing something similar. I’m not trying to plagiarize the wee bastard, it’s just that.....well...not many people know this but, the Mayor and I shared a brain at birth. That’s right we were conjoined until a successful operation allowed us to live independent lives with our half brains.
I guess this probably explains a lot, given the nature of some of our posts over the past year. One just has to explore these next links to see what not having all your gray matter does to you. They were links featured on both our sites btw.
Real life vs the internet (could have been on Chuck Norris Monday)
Monday, December 26, 2005
Any hoo....say goodbye to Christmas. It's history. Let's turn our attention to the New Year shall we, and more specifically the year ending. I thought it would be fun to rehash some of the Strangedaze blogs of the past 12 months. Don't worry, there will be no Blog wars, which had to be the worst idea ever. See. I didn't even link it. Yes, it was that stupid.
I would also like to give you an idea of what I have in store for the near future. In the new Year I will be doing something I like to call Chuck Norris Mondays, where two things face off against one another with one ultimate winner.
Here, I'll give you an example using some exellent links from 2005.
Cat vs Car
Squirrel vs Launcher
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Then you notice you've been so busy fighting the masses for those last minute deals , you haven't even started to decorate your household. In fact, all the Christmas shit is still in the shed under four feet of snow. What the hell do you do?
You can't dig it out, you have no energy. You can't go back out to the malls even if you wanted to because they're closed. DON'T PANIC!
Go here, for some ideas on how you can save the day with ordinary items. Unfortunately after that link I have no more advice. You are on your own. You see, I finished my shopping and decorating weeks ago. Sucker!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Death to all western pigs and a Merry Christmas/Happy Chanukah to all.
Season’s Greetings from Al Qaeda
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
No...officially...I’m doing the Christmas vacation blog week starting today, which is to say, It’ll be mostly links. Entertaining yes...but links never-the-less.
Today for instance is a link to a sketch from SNL that I’m still giggling over. If you didn’t see this rap on Saturday, you have to check it out. Now that’s some funny shit.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The days of using sudden deaths of distant relatives, severed limbs, and aggravated goiters no longer work. People see right through that. As soon as you’re hanging up the phone in a sigh of relief, the person on the other end is telling their significant other what a dead-beat fuck you are. You have to go.
But I can save you the pain of attending further functions at residences like this. All you need to do is take a couple bags of potato chips, a three cheese dip, and a bag of kiwi mice. That’s right. They won’t be calling you for their next holiday gala.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
But I also love the death and destruction of such classic Yule tide fare as Black Christmas and Silent Night Deadly Night. Imagine my mirth when I found someone finally created a bastard offspring of the two. Now I can have my bloodlust while feeling all fuzzy and warm about it.
Friday, December 16, 2005
In the past weeks I’ve counseled you on last minute gift ideas for the holiday season. However, one important feature I forgot to mention is, although Christmas is a time of giving to the ones you love, it can also be a time of dumping the dead-beat family and friends on your list.
It is a great opportunity to buy those people something truly awful. A gift given in all seriousness and sincerity but you know if they never get another thing from you again they’ll be happier for it.
Of course you can’t just go wrapping a big Ol’ bag of shit and boast how you saw it in a store’s display case and it made you think of them. You have to be sneaky. It has to be something where you can say, you searched and searched for just the right present.
I believe the next item could suffice and you can probaly save some coin if you purchase them by the dozen.
I give you the Clown cactus pot.
Bonus tip: If you don't want those relative slobs coming over again for Christmas dinner.--- When you're finished your meal, make a joke about your new dish-washer. --- Put dirty dishes on the floor for the dog to lick up.--- When he's done, put the plates dirrectly back into the cupboard.--- Make sure your guests witness these actions......You may have to buy a dog first.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
1. Clothes for a better version of him.
Hey you want to dress up your Scottish Terrier in a little pink sweater and hat? Fine! But we’re men not frickin’ pets. I love my old clothes and enjoy parading around like the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’ve got closets full of shit I’ll never wear or be able to re-gift.
2. The saccharine stuff.
While women always enjoy the lovey-dovey, men are often scared off by syrupy tokens, not to mention feel totally awkward about how to say "thanks" gracefully. Keep that in mind as you’re shopping. No doubt you will encounter ferociously cute teddy bears, a mix CD of love songs that’ll make your heart stir, and flannel pj’s with a really cute heart pattern... but think of how your man will feel unwrapping a gift like that.
Je-sus I’m an author and even I won’t read "The Bridges of Madison County".
3. Kitchen and bath bric-a-brac.
Even if your guy’s life is conspicuously missing a toaster oven, a hamper or a spice rack, unless you find one with 38 electronic widgets to distract him from the domesticity of your gift, skip this idea. It’s more like something his sensible mother would send him, and many guys can feel territorial about changes you’re indirectly making to their homes.
Oh yeah and the reason my toaster oven is missing is because it ended up in the tub while my ex-girlfriend was taking a bath.
4. Elaborate handmade gifts.
While a gift you make can mean much more than anything store-bought, guys often get uncomfortable and feel obligated if you give them something you’ve truly toiled over. You also want to go easy on the handcrafted gifts that celebrate your union. A tray decoupaged with photos of the two of you is a bit much for anyone but a husband to handle.
Mainly because the poor bastard no longer has a choice.
5. Self-help anything.
Men don’t want you to change them; they want you to love them especially when the love is accompanied by vast quantities of sex. But sometimes women can’t resist helping a guy reach one of his long-term goals. A copy of "What Color is Your Parachute?", is not going to be received with great anticipation.
The same goes for any self-improvement-type gifts that he hasn’t explicitly, repeatedly mentioned wanting, whether it’s a gym membership, a gift certificate for a facial, a nose-hair trimmer (even though the guys on Queer Eye swear by them) or a Rogaine sample.
I have underwear with holes in it from 1999 for cryin’ out loud. You think you're going to change me from wearing them? Besides, we’re already perfect. Don’t you know that by now?
Bonus tip: Unlike women, men actually enjoy getting small appliances. Or even large ones. Except something that needs batteries, vibrates, and looks like a telefunken u47 should be skipped. Anything with the letters LCD HD is always a nice thought.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
The worst women's gifts:
1. Anything she needs instead of wants.
Just because she needs new running shoes, hand lotion, or a frying pan, or tires for her car, isn’t your invitation to replace it. They may think it's sweet that you were listening, but that said, women never swoon over practical gifts.
"I always complained that I never had enough quarters for the laundromat," says Kristine Janik of New York City. "Then my boyfriend gave me $40 in quarters, which was really odd."
I wonder if she put them in a sock and then proceeded to beat the hell out of him?
2. Awful flowers.
Especially plastic or a table arrangement—round, with holly and glittery branches sticking out of it and a wooden church scene stuck on top, accompanied by a card that says: 'My love for you is everlasting, just like these flowers!’
Appropriate for your grandmother’s foyer, not so for the woman who decides if she'll suck your dick or not.
3. Sports paraphernalia.
Of course this rule applies to everyone except my girl D. She's a N.O. Saints fan, what more can I say?
4. A card that you’ve signed in front of her.
And if you have to ask her how to spell her name while you're doing it, I guess you should find somewhere else to spend Christmas.
5. A 3-way unless she specifically asks for it.
I won't make that mistake again.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Although Monday, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger' denied Williams' request for clemency, suggesting that his supposed change of heart was not genuine because he had not shown any real remorse, he did make a last minute call before the lethal injection.
It just so happens that I have access to those transcripts, but it's up to you to use your best Arnold voice.
San Quentin State Prison Official: Hello.
Gov. Arnold: It’s de Governor. Hold de injections, and de restraints, and de crying, and all tings like dat der. Put the prisonator on de phones. Now!
SQSPO: *covering the mouthpeice with hand* Stop the procedure. It’s Arnold. He wants to speak to Williams.
Williams: Hello....Governor Schwarzenegger?
Gov. Arnold: Is dis de prisonator to whom I am speaking to on de phone?
Williams: Yes Governor Schwarzenegger it is.
Gov. Arnold: Remember when I said I’d kill you last?.....I lied. Merry Christmas and all tings like dat der.
Full story here.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Relax, I’ve got you covered no matter what the fuck you celebrate. I’ll hook a brother up, no problem. Go to this link. They have T-shirts for all the holidays.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Saturday, December 10, 2005
The other day, a list was released of the world's top Mayors.
Dora Bakoyannis Mayor of Athens, (pictured right), was voted #1.
Hurricane Hazel McCallion of Mississauga, (the picture's not necessary is it?), snagged the #2 slot.
And our very own Mayor of Mitchieville finished a close third.
Congrats to the Mayor for his recognition on the world stage.
I bet you didn’t know this but Mitchieville came that close *tiny gap between thumb and index finger* to getting the 2006 winter Olympics. Hell, Barrie only beat us out for Live 8 because Bob, the guy who arranges City festivities was away on vacation in Aruba.
Dora Bakoyannis was elected the 48th Mayor of Athens on 20 October 2002. With her victory she broke several records that had stood for generations:
• She is the first woman chosen to lead Athens in the 3,000-year history of Europe’s oldest capital.
• She won by a larger majority – 61 per cent -- than any Athens mayor in the history of modern Greece.
• She is the first woman to have served as Mayor of a city hosting the Olympic Games, which was held in Athens half way through her term in the summer of 2004.
In November 2003, at the age of 82, Hazel McCallion started her 10th term of Mayor of Mississauga, a city of some 680,000 people just to the south-west of Toronto. Mayor McCallion celebrated her first mayoral election victory in 1978 and, during her 25 years in office, both she and the city she leads have set new standards in Canadian municipal government. Mississauga is one of a few cities in Canada that are debt-free. In fact, the city has not had to borrow money since 1978. (picture here if you really want to see, but don't say I didn't warn ya.)
Pictured right, the Mayor of Mitchieville takes a break from ice fishing at his remote cottage in Nunivit to enjoy the spoils of third place. All hail his excellence!
Friday, December 09, 2005
I still have a Christmas gift idea for you too buddy. Go to the link, buy her one , or perhaps a dozen and start to heal the rift in your relationship. Of course, what she does with her mouth is a different matter.
Now if it's your man that's been kissing Santa Claus, you have a two fold problem, but never fear there are also great designs for the fellas as well as the gals.
I have to admit, the Spex looks painful. I can almost hear the little bugger choking when I look at the picture. I think I'd rather have nine feet of intestine yanked from my body.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
It was twenty five years ago today.
....seem like longer to me.
...that Lenin died. One of the leading political figures and revolutionary thinkers of the 20th century, Lenin masterminded the Bolshevik take-over of power in Russia in 1917 and was the architect and first head of the Soviet state....
You know he doesn’t seem like such a bad chap. Just look at that lovable mug. He kinda looks like a Mike Myers character don't ya think?
He posthumously gave name to the Marxist-Leninist ideology, but by the death of the communist system in 1991, his legacy was largely discredited and....
....what? Lennon not Lenin? Oh John Lennon.....I...ah...um...........................................................Hey! Have you seen my new clock?....Sweet ain’t it? Got it from the Mayor of Mitchieville along with a bottle of Scotch and a $10 food voucher for Chuckie Cheese, as an early Christmas present....
You know....you’re right. It’s not much of a gift is it? Come to think of it, the Mayor’s pretty cheap. After all I’ve done for him.
I've been Campaign manager for years. Orchestrating his consistent defeats over that bastard Jerry Casby. I won't even discuss the favors I had to pull to get him out of his so-called "business trip" to Bangladesh. Hell, I even threw a pie in the face of Paul Martin during his visit with Condalisa Rice, for that man. And all I get is a clock, a little booze, and a gift certificate to a restaurant? I'd rather eat the ass end of a cat.
The Mayor should have used the Scotch to liquor up some scantily clad nymphettes and drop them off at my place, wrapped in Christmas bows and bacon, for a little of the old kneel & bob. And I’m not talking about Young and Dylan.
With a thoughtful, giving act like that, I'd be feeling much Joy....personally I don't care what the other girl's name is. Now there's a Christmas present.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
I promised at that juncture that I would not sleep until I found something for the guys to sharpen their skills on as well. And other than the 72 hours it took me to install my Christmas lights, I haven’t.
Today I’m proud to say I have done extensive research on the subject with the help of Dan Savage, and sifted through a few helpful tips, (in bold), from women themselves. So instead of just posting a link, I'm going to give you the 411 on the cooch first hand.
Because unless you have a vagina attached to your body, or like me watch an abundance of lesbian porn and frequently take notes, we men have no clue what the hell we are doing down there.
Okay, here are your cunnilingus tips, boys!
Whatever you do, DO NOT use your teeth! Also try to keep the saliva down to a minimum.
Got it, boys? No teeth, and very little saliva.
SALIVA, SALIVA, SALIVA: I can't overemphasize the importance of plenty of lubrication.
No, wait--use saliva, boys, and lots of it. But no teeth.
The word cunnilingus derives from two Latin words: cunnus (female genitals) and lingere (to lick). But the action should include not only the tongue, but the teeth. Tongue: soft, yet firm. Teeth: Nibble around down there!
No, wait--use your teeth to nibble, boys.
I don't think it's necessary for a guy to spend much time in any other area than the clitoris.
Focus on the clit, boys.
A clit is not a doorbell. Please do not punch it repeatedly with your tongue. And explore the rest of my pussy. It has just as many sensitive nerve endings as my clit.
No, wait--explore the whole pussy, boys.
As a closeted gay college student, I turned to my straight friends for guidance on "the deed," and one bit of advice actually worked: Lick the alphabet! One word of caution: SHE CAN'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING! It is disastrous to let her hear you humming the alphabet song. This could imply that you are not sufficiently stimulated by her parts, as was the case with me.
Lick the alphabet, boys, but don't let her know you're licking the alphabet.
I dated a guy who used "the alphabet song" to guide him along. Basically, he hummed the "A, B, C, D, E, F, G... H, I, J, K, LMNOP..." song while drawing the letters with his tongue on my clit. Now every time I hear the alphabet song I get wet!
No, wait. Tell her you're licking the alphabet, and she'll get wet when she hears the alphabet song.
Guys, don't slide your tongues in and out of our vaginas. All that feels like is a small, thin, limp dick. Most women don't like small, limp dicks, so why simulate one with your tongue?
Don't stick your tongues in, boys.
A French guy once stuck his tongue in and swirled it around, pushing it really hard against the walls of my vagina. It was amazing. The American guys I've slept with tend to lap politely. I guess this must be one of those things the French come up with in their six weeks of annual paid vacation.
No, wait--stick your tongues in the vaginal canal, boys.
So many guys are obsessed with penetration that they can't eat pussy without sticking their fingers in. Fellas, please, just lick me.
No fingers, boys, just tongue.
Men need to know that the G-spot is located behind the ridge of the pubis bone, up and inside her vagina. Take your hand palm up, insert middle and pointer fingers, curl your fingers toward you like you're saying, "Come here." Do this while you lick, and she'll come right then and there.
No, wait--use your fingers and tongue, boys.
Okay, let's review what we've learned: Use little saliva; use lots of saliva; use your teeth; don't use your teeth; focus on the clit; explore the whole pussy; lick the alphabet but don't tell her; lick the alphabet and tell her; don't stick your tongue in; stick your tongue in; don't stick your fingers in; stick your fingers in.
I hope this was helpful. Of course, if it wasn't--if this post left you more confused--you might try ASKING THE WOMAN TO TELL YOU EXACTLY WHAT SHE LIKES. Personally, two things kept coming up while I was reading my 500 e-mails about cunnilingus: my lunch, and the sneaking suspicion that not all women enjoy the same things when it comes to oral sex. So, boys, you'll have to ask .
Memorize all this stuff and they'll be calling you Clitty McNub in no time and then you're ready to plug in and play.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The complaints from neighbors are numerous and pour in a steady stream.
The death threats are mounting and I fear for my cat's life.
Now, I’m a reasonable guy. I can at least embrace the idea of compromise, but nothing has worked so far.
Changing the music to Black Sabbath only seemed to anger everyone more. And let’s not discuss the rage induced by Eminem. So I decided perhaps something a little more traditional was in order? I hope this will keep the grumbling to a minimum?
Monday, December 05, 2005
It was a long tedious process and there were some injuries. Sadly I will miss my Son, but the end result was well worth his passing as you will see. Although, I don’t think the neighbors will appreciate it much.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Never fear brothers and sisters, Strange is here to help with all your festive season woes. Have I ever let you down?.....OK apart from that one time have I ever let you down?....Hey it's your fault for leaving me to feed the dogs when you were on vacation. How was I to know not to give them bacon. The stains will come out. Keep scrubbing....Oh forget it....let’s move on.
It just so happens that I have a friend, who is a friend of a friend of an uncle, who is trying to sell his Xbox 360, no questions asked *wink* You do have cash right? All right go to the link.
Tell him Chris sent you. He’ll probably knock off a couple of bucks and everyone is happy. For those of you who are still in the market for an Xbox...tough tittie.....but I’ll keep my eye out for other cool Christmas gift ideas and let you know.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
.....Oh....Hi.....Sorry.....I’m still trying to spot all the bands from Thursday’s post. It’s taking up a good portion of my brain capacity and that's without the erection.
I don’t even remember what I was going to Blog today....oh yes....do you ever wonder who would win in a battle between a rabbit and a bunch of piranhas?....yeah you're right. That's a stupid question....
Ok let’s say the rabbit has magical powers like a wizard or George Bush or Paris Hilton maybe?....Nope still the piranhas....
I’ll just post the pics and you can judge for yourself....Say did you ever see that movie, "Gone in 60 seconds" with Nicholas Cage and Angelina Jolie?....
...Do you ever wonder who would win in a battle between Nicholas Cage, Angelina Jolie and a bunch of piranhas? Hell I'll even throw in Brad Pitt.
Friday, December 02, 2005
As men we don’t like to tell women when they give shitty oral because we’re scared to death we’ll never get it again. And bad oral is still better than no oral.
Then I stumbled across this site and thought I’d share it with those of you of the female persuasion. If you are one of those dreaded few who think sucking a penis is like making the driest martini in the world and our dicks are the vermouth, you can maybe find out what you’ve been doing wrong all these years.
I’m sorry I haven’t located one for the guys yet. I know men are not much better when it comes to knowing what to do with the other team's sexy bits. Most of us just treat a woman’s Venus mound like it’s an all you can eat buffet and when we run out of ideas we just ram a thumb up her arse and hope for the best.
So I will endeavor to keep searching for the men while the ladies brush up on their technique. And girls, you will be tested.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
In this picture there are 75 music artist references, both group and individual. Can you spot them all?
Uh.... is Hot Chocolate one? Great! Now I can’t get "You sexy thing" out of my head.
I’ll tell you, I studied this for an hour and only came up with about fifteen. Appalling I know, since I used to be a musician and still listen to a wide variety.
If you really need to cheat you can go here. There are others, just like you and I, who have nothing better to do with their time than stare relentlessly at this picture. First give it a shot and see how many you come up with before you compare notes.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
(from the Oral Blonde album "Hamburger with cheese")
If I slit my wrists and bled on your carpet would you clean it
Or would you leave it to remember me by
I caught my fingers in the door when I was waving goodbye- Ho-ha
And my nails came off just like Jeff Goldblum's in "The Fly"
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
If I scalded my hands in boiling hot water would you put out my eyes
Or leave me to die with a subscription to "Better Homes and Bludgeons"
I cut off my nose shaving and you didn't bring me roses
Instead you noticed that I no longer smell
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Oh wolf nipple chip sugar talkin' momma
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat....
the cat is dead.
For more on the Oral Blondes go here.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
So to help you prepare over the coming weeks, I will be launching a series of gift ideas in your quest for the perfect present. I'm just trying to save you the embarrassment of running around like a blathering idiot at 5:30 on the 24th to buy scratch tickets for everyone. (You're welcome.)
The first one is a great item from the wonderful people at Divine Interventions. It's for those up-tight members of your family. Perhaps your pompous Uncle or prudish Aunt?
It embodies all the positives of Christmas. Like watching the pleasure in others faces as they use your gift for the first time, or giving you the sense, the good Lord is somewhere deep inside of you. They even have the baby Jesus.
Now I ask you. How much more Christmas does it get? And the answer is none. None more Christmas.
You could order a dozen of these babies and your Christmas shopping would be finito. And how good would that feel?
Monday, November 28, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Wow 5 years. It brings a tear to the eye... it was during the Cannabis Cup!....you’d cry too, you insensitive bastard.
Today however, I’m getting ready for a little jaunt into the land of the free and the home of the brave. We are off to see my girl D’s beloved Saints battle the Jets in the Meadowlands.
Since it is also Thanksgiving State-side, I thought I would bond with my American brethren and post a link to the true story of Thanksgiving. I’ve researched this and it’s right up there with the E-true story of Santa, the Easter Bunny and Hitler.
So forget about your troubles friends. Forget the impending layoffs before Christmas, forget your cheating spouse, forget that damn annoying Bird Flu thingy....wait Thanksgiving...turkeys....ok...scratch the last one, but click the link and have a giggle.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Pickles, pickaxe, pacemaker, pachyderm, pacifier.....is your computer screen covered in spit yet?
...pad thai, Palestinian, panic attack, gay penguin, ( I suddenly have an urge to visit the Mayor).....
...pancake, pancreas, papaya, cell phones....
Hey does anyone else want to punch Richard Branson in the spleen over that new Virgin cell phone commercial? You know the one where that chick hisses like a frickin’ cat over her Christmas gift before a stuffed elk gets wheeled in to give her the great news of Sir Richards savings packages. Perhaps you’re lucky and that ad piece of crap is indigenous to this country only.
...parallel universe, peanut worm, premier, piracy, Harry Potter....
Can you believe they actually had gaurds at the premier? Militia with metal ditectors and night vision goggles, frisked movie goers to prevent piracy of the new Potter film. (like I want to see some guy with a plant for hair get up in the middle of the film on my TV anyway.)
peekaboo, pencil pusher, pimp, pedicure, (yeah I'll get to the foot thing some other time)....
...pennywort, pompadour, pigmy, penile dysfunction....
I’m not actually going to talk about the penis here, but it seemed a good segue into the book I’m reading called, "Getting Laid," by Paul Barker. It’s a Sex in the City/ Bridget Jones Diary approach from a man’s perspective and it’s friggin hilarious.
Paul and I have a lot in common as we both write humorous fiction based on real life. We both write from the Dicklit angle and we are both unpublished authors working for a living in other jobs.
People who would really enjoy these books if they read them, I’d say are in the 50% category.
Unfortunately, people who would find this stuff funny and actually buy and read books is more like 2%. Thus the dilemma.
The male side of things is even more grim. About 20% of the buying public are men, except most of those readers are either the comic book crowd with no life experience, or retired codgers who want to read things like, The Great Halifax Disaster of 1911," or "Rommel: The Desert Fox." Ah Canada, home of the non-fiction history lesson novel.
Publishers and agents know this and will squash anything remotely linked to the Dicklit genre. But we will persevere. If not with my newest offering "Handmade Heart," then my next, "The Yaya Sisterhood Strikes Back."
....prostate exam, pissed-off, publishers, parasitic putz’s.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
You see I’ve been viewing some triple G vids with the standard fare of oral, anal, in & out and a bukkake chaser straight from Deutscheland. However, all the dialogue is in German. Even the ooohs and ahs. But I started to discover, after a while, I understood what was being said.
This got me to thinking, if I could learn German while I was watching porn, then maybe others like me could learn as well? Think of the ramifications? And it doesn't have to be learning to speak words other than your mother tongue. Subliminal messages in porn could teach you Law, Medicine, or Small engine repair. Hot dang!
Just as long as the porn doesn’t end up in the wrong hands and programed for a different purpose. Then you find after watching some three-way action you have a sudden urge to take the wife shoe shopping.
Now I realize that even though I am working towards becoming fluent in German, it is still limited. For instance I can’t very well get off the plane in Munich and start yelling-"Arschegefickte tussen schlucken besser," or "Ass fucked sluts do it better."
Nor can I tell someone their German daughter looks "Neidlisch su und vollgespritzt und gierige sperma schlampen." or in other words, "cute, lovely and drenched in jizz like a greedy sperm whore."
I think I would have a few unsettling looks if I were to order off the menu in Frankfurt by saying, "Fur hubsche und geil. Gib mir einen mund voll sperma. Ich muss abspritzen. Snell!" or as you probably have already figured out, "I'm hot and horny. Give me a mouth full of cum. I need some spunk. Now!"
Yet, on the bright side, I am certainly more versed in the linguistics of the Master Race than I was a month ago.
So if you feel like picking up another language, I suggest downloading porn from whatever country you desire. Learn a language. Ukranian, Russian, Dutch.
Give yourself the gift that keeps on giving and educate yourself in the process.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Now I’m here to put things right and blow one off. It’s last minute, I know, but it should suffice.
It’s a link to those crazy, yet creative inventor bastards. These people are intelligent. We are talkin’ S M R T, Arkansas advanced in their way of thinkin’.
It appears there is hope for your VCR yet. Your pets will thank you. Go here and scroll down.
Monday, November 14, 2005
This week is brought to you by the letter P and today’s word is Penetration. Can you say Penetration...sure..sure..I knew you could. The swell people at Apple have come up with a new gizmo to appease the angry masses after the Nano ipod fiasco. Those little buggers broke if you looked at them the wrong way. So this new device should help you forget that shoddy workmanship...the ladies anyway.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
With that said:
I was checking the Ol’ dooflingus the other day. And by dooflingus I mean site meter not...well...dooflingus...as in my dooflingus, which is fine by the way. Thanks for askin’.
Every once in a while I like to go in and view the site meter, see who has been on the blog, where these fine people come from and who referred them.
I noticed that even after several months I’m still getting hits from search engines by people looking for the Pottahawk Pissup. Guys it’s over! It’s mid November now. Move on.
Unless you’re ironing the swantz-gold Speedo and puffing up the water wings for next year? PP is fucking someone else. Get over it. The boats are all shrink-wrapped and stowed away for the winter. Just make sure you don’t miss this extraordinary event in the future or I will have to taunt you a second time.
But I'm also here to help you my friends.
If you are still suffering withdrawals, I suggest you focus on the picture, (Sorry girls, he’s taken), for at least five minutes. It has been known to cure such longings by replacing them with a vision much more shocking and horrific. It will make you forget all about Pottahawk and run screaming.....I'll just set my watch....ready?....and go!....Hey, are you still here?..... Hello.....Hello!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
This was sent to me in an email. I thought it was a good giggle, so I'm posting it today. It was an item being sold on Ebay. If you are interested, I'm afraid it's too late to bid but read on anyway.
You are bidding on a mistake.
We all make mistakes. We date the wrong people for too long. We chew gum with our mouths open. We say inappropriate things in front of grandma.And we buy leather pants.
I can explain these pants and why they are in my possession. I bought them many, many years ago under the spell of a woman whom I believed to have taste. She suggested I try them on. I did. She said they looked good. I wanted to have a relationship of sorts with her. I’m stupid and prone to impulsive decisions. I bought the pants.
The relationship, probably for better, never materialized. The girl, whose name I can’t even recall, is a distant memory. I think she was short.
Ultimately the pants were placed in the closet where they have remained, unworn, for nearly a decade. I would like to emphasize that: Aside from trying these pants on, they have never, ever been worn. In public or private.
I have not worn these leather pants for the following reasons:
I am not a member of Queen.I do not like motorcycles.I am not Rod Stewart.I am not French.I do not cruise for transvestites in an expensive sports car.
These were not cheap leather pants. They are Donna Karan leather pants. They’re for men. Brave men, I would think. Perhaps tattooed, pierced men. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say you either have to be very tough, very gay, or very famous to wear these pants and get away with it.
Again, they’re men’s pants, but they’d probably look great on the right lady. Ladies can get away with leather pants much more often than men can. It’s a sad fact that men who own leather pants will have to come to terms with.
They are size 34x34. I am no longer size 34x34, so even were I to suddenly decide I was a famous gay biker I would not be able to wear these pants. These pants are destined for someone else. For reasons unknown - perhaps to keep my options open, in case I wanted to become a pirate - I have shuffled these unworn pants from house to house, closet to closet. Alas, it is now time to part ways so that I may use the extra room for any rhinestone-studded jeans I may purchase in the future.
These pants are in excellent condition. They were never taken on pirate expeditions. They weren’t worn onstage. They didn’t straddle a Harley, or a guy named Harley. They just hung there, sad and ignored, for a few presidencies.
Someone, somewhere, will look great in these pants. I’m hoping that someone is you, or that you can be suckered into buying them by a girl you’re trying to bed.
Please buy these leather pants.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Last night NIN played here in the Big Smoke. The following is my review of the evening.
I’ve seen them put on better shows with more intensity, emotion and showmanship, but in all fairness, last night wasn’t their fault. It was the fuckin’ prick who decided that as a spanking to the ACC and the public in general, it should be a dry concert.
Without the benefit of alcohol the crowd just didn’t have the energy after a rockin set by Queens of the Stone Age to get Nails through the night. Granted, as professionals it shouldn’t matter if there is one person in the audience or 16,000 screaming crazies. But Trent and the boys always like to come out roaring then break it down in the middle and whip it up in the end. With a sober crowd, it's an extremely hard task and after the video presentation, there was no energy to feed off.
It took until the encore, Hand that feeds/Head like a hole, to get the blood pumping again and by that time...show’s over folks...it’s too late to kiss perfection between the legs.
Maybe my expectations are too high after witnessing previous shows that slipped beyond excellence? Or perhaps I was put off by mitigating circumstances? The expensive merchandise, the even more expensive snacks. Christ, they should have just checked my prostate while they were at it.
Other evening events that didn't sit well with me?
-Even though I informed the girl at the check point, Al Qa'ida had given me the night off, she frisked me like she was gorging on a bucket of chicken and I was the elusive drum stick at the bottom grease-stained container.
-I roamed the halls for twenty minutes and not one person mistook me for the real Trent Reznor.
- At the begining of every frickin' song, the guy next to me yelled out, "Yessss!" like he’d made a three pointer to win the game and got nothing but net. I'm sure before the concert he went to a Bookie and said, "I’m betting a $100 on the order NIN will play the songs tonight."
-There was a line at the men's bathroom.... the men's for christ sake!
-Then there was my girl D who wanted to hear "Something I can never have," and when they unexpectedly played it 5 songs in, she went crazy and nearly squeezed my dice right out of my nut sack. Hurt like hell too and I had to go stand in line for the bathroom again. Although, the guy next to me thought it was great. "Yessss!"
Perhaps an eventual DVD release of the tour will prove me wrong and Nails simply needed an audience from that mythical land where beer is readibly available at concert venues?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
You see, men on the whole are cheatin’sons of bitches at some time in their life. I should know. I was one. And then they just become men on the hole, which is not exactly a good emotional state for women to be in, especially when it’s mostly some other woman’s hole their on.
My girl D always says, "I wish I'd met you 10 years ago."
And I always say, "No you don't. I would have fucked you up good."
It's the truth.
But I don’t need to tell you this girls, you’ve already been through the scenario at one time or another. Perhaps it’s still going on...hurry...go look for the God damn paper trail! Because men, as well, are stupid creatures when it comes to sex and will believe their own lies. (Yes I am aware that you knew that fact as well.)
"Yeah Honey, about that room at the Radisson on my credit card? Funny thing that...you see...there was this homeless guy who was nearly frozen to death on the street corner and to make a long story short....he had a puppy...did I mention he had a nearly frozen puppy with him....I needed to help him...and the puppy.....get him off the street and into a warm bed...well, turns out the Radisson was the only place that would let animals stay...oh and that meal at Chez Louie...he had to eat, Honey...he was starving.
Translated into man speak all this simply means is...I fucked your best friend, cause she had bigger tits than you and I couldn't resist. She was a great lay and in a hurry to get my dick out of my pants, I forgot to pay cash.
Oh yes...the link...almost forgot...the story of the homeless guy and the puppy got me side-tracked. here it is....Now go! Share it with all Womandom and crazy assed females everywhere....note: the site has agreed to remove my profile in return for this posting.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
He has 2 goals and 4 assists in that span, including the game winner last night against Washington. A 2 point per game clip is pretty good for a guy who almost lost an eye-ball early last month wouldn’t you agree?
What does all this mean for the Buds?
They still won’t make the playoffs. Lindross will find a way to get hurt. Pat Quinn will probably announce soon he is illiterate, and the whole team will most likely be implicated in some boat cruise sex scandal. In fact, expect them to get slaughtered by Buffalo in their next game, or is their characteristic, inconsistent play lost on you as long as there’s a W on the board? (Can you tell I'm a Habs fan yet?)
Hold on there Leaf faithful. It’s going to be a long season of barely scraping the median.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
My favourites are:
-Drowning during your born-again baptism. (Yup that would be embarrassing.)
-Strangling on the finish line tape at the end of a marathon. (Don't have to worry about that one. I can't run around the block.)
-Being burned to death after falling and dropping the Olympic Torch three feet from the cauldron. (Remember when Ali did it at the Atlanta Olympics? Wow that was a close call.)
-Brain hemorrhage while trying to force out a huge turd. (Boy do these people ever know me.)
What are you still doing here? Click the link already.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Should someone call the fire department?
A woman in Houston Texas, (big surprise there), claims the image of Jesus Christ is evident in the upper branches of a tree in her yard. If between yawns you want to check the story out it’s here.
Is it any wonder that people like me scoff and make fun of religious fanatics like this? Truthfully, the only time I, or my girl D ever see a vision of a deity, is during sex. Besides, this "I saw the Almighty in a taco" business is getting old.
In fact, a woman in Milwaukee, or maybe it was Wisconsin? I don’t know. Someplace where they either brew, or drink a lot of beer. This woman also professed to have Jesus in a tree in her yard. Although, later it was proven to only be a poorly carved etching of Willie Nelson.
If you still haven’t had your fill of the Lord and Savior you should go to Jesus of the week, which I believe, like everything else, I stole from the Mayor at some point along with some pens, paper-clips and a back issue of "Massive Jug Sluts".
Anyway, go. Have a larf or three. I think they have an all-you-can-eat-body of Christ special on.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Ok, my little three week self indulgence is at an end. I hope those of you who took the time to read the posts, enjoyed it. For those interested, further information and news on my progress can be found at the Handmade Heart web page
Now it's time to get back to the meat and potatoes of Blogging and focus on the stupid, inane, banter of everyday life that confuses and sometimes astounds us. I look forward to reading your comments on future posts.
Thank you for your patronage.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.
I puffed and wheezed as we raced with vigor to the dressing room to find our elusive percussionist. We charged in to see his legs sticking out of a closet in the far corner of the room. He was naked except for his boots and was holding on to a prop from the fifth song of the night, a blow up doll we called Wanda. She always coaxed a huge response from our audiences and now she had somehow coaxed Alistair Pare' into the dressing room closet. She was in his arms in post coital acquiescence. Alistair’s spectacles sat askew on his nose and his porkpie hat looked more like a yarmulke crushed like a pillow between his head and the wall.
"Forget the kiss. I think murder is more appropriate Sparky."
"I think I’m gonna be sick."
Alistair looked up at us and giggled. It was a hideous chortle that had a gurgling sound to it, and the smell of cheap liquor and sweaty plastic was an unmistakable musk.
"Je-sus Alistair! We’re on stage in fifteen minutes man!"
There was a knock on the door. It was Chas. His voice drifted through the door with calm authority, "Twelve minutes guys."
"Je-sus! Twelve minutes. Fuck me!"
I sniffled through my cold, "I wouldn’t say tha in frun of our presen combany, Doc."
Alistair’s laugh suddenly changed to blubbering and his head sagged.
"Alistair we go on in twelve minutes you have to get it together man."
"Don’t tell my wife mate." he sobbed, "You know . . . about the tart." He nodded toward Wanda.
I looked at Wanda and her expressionless open armed invitation and gapping mouth. "Alistair you’re nod married."
He wouldn’t hear of it and continued to blubber. "Crikey, if she finds out I’ve been unfaithful, I’ll never be able to sit about the house with my balls hanging out."
Doc shot his hands up in frustration, "Well there’s always the closet in the dressing room here."
"It’s all righd Alistair." I tossed Wanda across the room where she landed next to a coat rack by the door. "Look the other woban’s gone. Doc helb me get him ub . . . Doc? Come on! Now!"
Doc had rolled up the sleaves on his long white stage jacket and was wrapping a couple of Rooster’s extra stage towels around his hands. "I’m not touching his sweaty bulbous body. Who knows what kind of cooties he has?"
"Hurry ub. I need your helb. He’s a heaby bugger."
Alistair’s head sagged forward. "Crickey mate. My tally-whacker’s out saluting the Queen."
"Unfordunadely we already nodissed thad."
Doc and I struggled to get him out of the closet and on a nearby chair. Alistair slumped in the chair and began to swing his hips from side to side. "Tic-toc. Tic-toc. Look at me mate, I’m a human clock."
"Doc ged his panzs."
"What I want to know, is how did he get out of them and still have his boots on?"
"Just ged his panzs! Alistair you’ll have to gib me your leg."
Doc held up the pants. "Hello boys. I see they’re tear-a-ways." He crumpled them into a ball and tossed them to me. I unrolled them, snapped together a few clasps, and held out an open pant leg for our drummer.
"Alistair, gib me your leg."
"Tic-toc. Tic-toc . . . "
"Alistair! For Christ sake! Your leg. Now!"
He brought his leg up and it thumped to the floor missing the pant leg altogether. There was another knock at the door and Chas’ voice floated through in a muffle. "Ten minutes guys."
"Ok! Ok! We’ll be there!"
"Oh, and Blake Cole just walked in."
"Fantasdic." I mumbled. "Just in tibe to see us in disarray with our drunk drubber."
"What’s a drunk drubber?" Alistair inquired.
The door opened.
"Chas I told you we’ll be there!"
But it was the Mayor. "I brought you some ice cream for your throat."
Doc protested. "You can’t give him that. Sparky you can’t eat that with a cold. Dairy products will cause more phlegm. He can’t eat that take it back."
"I can’t take it back Doc. Are you mad?"
"Doc by throad feels like fordy feed of grabel ass. I hab to do somethink."
"Well not that Sparky. Get another lozenge."
"Fine! I’ll eat it myself," the Mayor admonished. Feeling unappreciated, he sat down with a thump.
Alistair raised his leg slightly but it again fell with a thud. He began to snivel again. "I’m dying mate. I know it."
"You’re juzz drunk. You’re nod dying!"
"Then why is the doctor here?"
"Thad’s Doc Barlow you fool. He’s dressed for stage."
Alistair thought for a second. "Doc Balow? I just can’t handle that guy." He put his hand to the side of his face and whispered, "But don’t tell him that mate."
"Doc hold his leg."
"I’ll hold his fat fuckin’ neck if he doesn’t shut his yap." Doc tightened his towels and then struggled to lift the tree-like appendage.
Arsehole Party was giggling again, "That tickles mate."
"Let me hit him Sparky. Just once."
I started to shove a rolled up pant leg over his boot and up his leg. "Good Alistair now the udder one." Repeatedly he raised his foot and missed the mark clomping his boot down.
"What a sad spectacle." The Mayor said, as he poked Wanda between mouthfuls of ice cream. "Wanda looks a little saggy. She’s probably sprung a leak with lard ass all over her. Looks like he finally found a woman who didn’t turn him down huh?"
Alistair looked at the Mayor with envious eyes as he plowed his wooden spoon into the ice cream. Licking his lips he said, "Hey mate, if I got a spoon could I have a taste of that?"
"No!" The Mayor said. He seemed disgusted by our drummer's request and cradled his small dish of ice cream to the side and out of sight.
"Mayor, go down stairs and try to ged em to delay the show. Send Skids ub here."
The Mayor, still protecting his dessert, snapped to his feet and abruptly left. Doc and I continued to struggle with our uncooperative band member and his other pant leg. "Fug dis cold!" I grunted.
Wanda’s battle scars had deflated her further. Her head, with gapping mouth, now
drooped to her perky plastic breasts like a distressing yoga position. She began to sag under the chair that had propped her up to witness our meager attempts to dress our drummer. "There’s no way we can use Wanda on stage tonight Sparky. The Mayor’s right she sprung a leak. She’s been through a traumatic enough experience anyway with Mr. Porkpie hat here."
Skids pushed his way into the room. "The Mayor said you . . . " He started to laugh. "This is sweet."
"It’s not funny Skids I need you to helb Doc get him downstairs. I have to get somethink for by throat." I began to clear my voice again with distressing regularity that disintegrated quickly into a coughing fit.
"You can’t leave me here alone, Sparky. I’m not putting pants on him. You ever change a babies diaper? They always piss all over you right before you get it on them. I’m not taking the chance."
"Skids is here to helb Doc."
"What? I’m not touching him."
"Skids, stop laughing. We need your helb."
"You and I couldn’t get his pants on, Sparky. What makes you think Skids and I are going to have anymore success?"
"Well what do you suggest Doc? He can’t go on stage in nothink but his boods." I wheezed. "And take off those damn towels, no wonder you can’t get his pants on." I ground my throat harder. It sounded like I was dragging a steel shovel across cement.
Skids continued to laugh, he was becoming hysterical and had to push his trade mark swoop of hair out of his face. "What happened to Wanda?"
Doc pointed to Alistair as he continued, "How do we know he can even play in this condition?"
"Because he’s been shid-faced at mozed of our rehearsals, thaz why."
"Just don’t tell my wife mate. I’ll be in the dog-box for a month."
"She’s going to smell the plastic on you," Doc teased as he tossed Rooster’s towels by the door.
Alistair got teary eyed.
"You mean to tell me Wanda and Alistair . . .? " Skids began to howl again.
"Skids we hab to sobber his ass ub. Think of somethink."
"I wonder what the kids will look like?"
Skids reached into his pocket and retracted some change. He fished through the coins and plucked out a penny. He approached Alistair and began to force the coin into his drooling mouth.
"For God sake man, whaddar you drying to do? He’ll choke."
"Relax, I saw this in a medical magazine. The copper will help him sobber up. It acts as an inhibitor. Come on, Alistair. Open up. Here comes the airplane into the hanger."
"This is ludicrous." I growled.
"Sparky’s right you fool it’s supposed to be a quarter." Doc began to search his pockets.
Our drummer began to gag as the penny found its mark imbedded somewhere between is cheek and teeth. He began to make sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball. "CAUGHHHK!"
Skids tried to force another penny between his lips. "It’s for your own good old boy."
"Skids you idiot let me in there," Doc spouted with his quarter raised. He looked like someone anxious to make his three song selections on the jukebox.
"Stob it! Both of you. This is stoobid."
They stopped and turned to me in mid insert. Alistair gaged again, "CAUGHHHK!"
"You both hab no idea whad you’re docking aboud. We hab to get him dressed. That’s the prioridy here. Nod, can we fit change for a fifdy in his fuggin’ mouth." There was another knock at the door. "Grand Cendral Station! Whad is the world insane? JEBUS H. CHRIST! WHAD IS ID?" The words ripped from my vocal cords like rusty razors.
Rooster entered. "Guys, I’ve been waiting for you down stairs. We’re on in . . . " He spied
Alistair, slumped and sobbing in his boots with one pant leg trailing from the knee like a rampart flag in need of wind. "— Mother fucker!" Rooster charged forward and threw a punch at Alistair hitting him in the head and knocking him off the chair to the floor. He landed with a thump. The pant-flag raised. "CAUGHHHK!" There was a faint plink of a coin hitting the floor and rolling away into one of the corners where it wobbled until Lincoln gazed upward, motionless, unblinking.
Doc and I grabbed our guitarist. "Now is not the tibe." I hissed. "We hab to ged him ready to go on."
"He can’t play like that!"
"Yes he can. Rooster! Lizzen to me while I still hab a voice, God dab it! We hab no choice. We canned cancel now. We’ve waded a year to do this. We doan go on, it’s all ober."
"Sparky’s right . . . I think . . . the show must go on."
In a delayed reaction, the punch finally registered and Alistair let out a weak, "Ow." He was still laying prone on the floor like a cow that had just been tipped. "Was that my wife mate?"
Rage seized Rooster again and he tried to kick our drummer from his restrained position.
"Rooster! Stob id man! Dis is nod helbing madders." My voice was like verbal gravel. How was I going to sing? "Doc please think of somethink."
Again Alistair’s slurred voice ascended from the floor boards. "I think I’m bleeding. I can taste copper."
The intro music began to play from beneath our feet.
Doc sounded alarmed, "Holy Louie Be-je-sus! What the hell?"
"Fug, the intro tabe we’re subbose to go on. Skids helb doc with dis ass. We’ll see you down der. Cub on Rooster." I pulled on his arm. "Deal with him laider. We hab to ged on stage." My lungs cried out for oxygen as my vocal engine sputtered and coughed and my nostrils inadvertently began to close again, constricting any passage of air.
"Go!" Doc demanded, regaining his composure. "Get down there! We’ll think of something . . . Skids, where’s the penny?"
For further information on this manuscript and other works, please visit the Handmade Heart web page.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Since we all had day jobs, we played when we could on the weekends and tried to co-ordinate our holiday time together for longer treks. Even though we had different vocations we were musicians first and emphatically maintained that was the true profession. Our roadie Skids on the other hand, was going through an identity crisis and had drifted from job to job in search of a new career like the wind was blowing him. He’d been a stuntman, a sou chef, a private investigator, and an exporter of horse semen. He’d even done a stint as a minister trying to start his own religion. It got as far as a few sermons mostly revolving around parables before the authorities shut him down. His current occupation had landed him some small rolls in a few low budget films where we saw the back of his head mostly. To us it was just another pylon on the long life road. To Skids, he was a bonafide actor and was adamant that he be perceived as such.
We were in the midst of performing a six in seven night swing that led us over the border and upon our return we were greeted by the usual questions. "Where you coming from? How long were you away? Anything to declare."
Doc had already pushed the wrong buttons by responding that he’d declare he had a good time. Everything was going as usual until the border guard asked us our occupation. Like dominoes in motion we rhymed off one after another, "Musician," until it was Skids’ turn. He paused, turned his head to profile, looked up slightly, extended his arm forward like he was plucking an apple from a nearby tree and declared, "I’m an actor." He even broke actor into its respective syllables with the inflection on tor. The rest of us melted our faces into our hands. It was easy to see what was coming next.
"Pull your vehicle into the second bay area gentlemen and go inside to the immigration desk."
We did as we were asked and dejectedly shuffled into the building as two of the border patrol began their inspection of our vehicle.
"Some actor," Doc scoffed, "You can’t even make a border guard believe you." Doc shot his arm skyward in mimic. "I’m an ac-tor. Je-sus, do us a favor Skids, for God's sake, please don't tell them you used to export horse semen. I don't want to be here all night."
In we walked to the stoic atmosphere of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of sterile cleanliness. Once inside we were questioned one by one in a small room of peeling pea green paint, on a park-like bench of uncomfortable wood, with handcuffs dangling off the armrest. Contracts were examined, personal effects were perused, documentation was run through Interpol, all under the watchful eyes of glaring scrutiny.
Rooster complained as he plunked himself down next to us and Chas was led away for his
turn at twenty questions, "They made me strip down to my undies and squeezed out my toothpaste. I was expecting Dr. Jelly-finger to walk in at any moment."
Bug moaned, "I don’t stand a chance in prison. I’m too small."
"Bug, we’ve done nothing wrong."
"But they always make you feel like you’re hiding something, Sparky."
Doc needled him, "As long as you left the tea bags at home, we should be fine."
Skids squirmed in his chair, "I have to pee."
"You can’t. These guys will probably go in after you and retrieve the urinal puck for analysis. Then we’ll be here another twelve hours."
One of the border patrol who’d been searching through our vehicle approached. He was a burly brute with a handlebar mustache. He walked with his thumbs tucked tight into his belt which only brought further attention to his bulging gut, bordered by his handcuffs and holstered firearm. He towered over us and his flared nostrils taunted us from above. "We’ve completed our search of your vehicle, and I found this under the front seat." He plunked out his thumbs and removed a small baggy from his shirt pocket.
"Looks like a twig from a tree branch."
"Don’t be smart with me longhair. I could hold you here a hell of a lot longer for smuggling contraband."
"Illegal horticulture. You’re kidding right?" Doc asked, as he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
"This could be from a bud of marijuana. All you musician types smoke it."
We were now joined by the Duty Sargent who also had a mustache except his was more of the push-broom type. Lip dressing must be standard issue. "I’ve looked over your contracts and I’m afraid I will need verification that they are legitimate."
"Call the club."
"I did. There’s no answer. I need the agent who signed them to come up here."
"She’s the one who signed? Yes, I need to speak with her."
Reluctantly I called Alice and informed her of our delay and legal troubles. It took an hour before she blew in through the doors of the building. She went into the office, talked to the Duty Sargent and emerged twenty minutes later.
"They’ve agreed to let you go," she said handing out our documentation like it was candy and we were the enthusiastic trick-or-treaters. "Next time have the proper paperwork with you, H-2's, the work visas, whatever, so I don’t have to do this again every time you play outside the country."
"Sorry, thanks for coming on such short notice. Hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much?"
Skids danced around until he got his ID back then raced off to the restroom before he’d be known as Stains.
Alice continued, "I was on a lunch date when you called."
"Don’t be. I was looking for an excuse to get out of it anyway."
"That bad was it?"
"He brought me a pair of brown cords as a gift John. Brown cords."
"Yeah that would fit a twelve-year-old. Probably got them on sale."
"Was he trying send you a message that he’s cheap, or a pedofile?"
"I don’t know. I won’t be seeing him again to find out. Come on, you guys are going to have to motor to get a decent sound check in before the next gig."
We entered the bay area where we found our truck in disarray. Cases were open on the ground like little coffins. Suitcases were unzipped, seat cushions and effects tossed askew. Panels inside the truck had been popped ajar, wheel covers removed, the glove box lay with its tongue out regurgitating maps, receipts, and parking tickets. Skids joined our association of disbelief.
"Skids since you’re the one who got us into this, why don’t you show us your acting skills and act like you’re putting the truck back together."
Tomorrow excerpt from: The deflated dreams of Wanda
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Blood Monkey was the affectionate nickname for our light-man back in the Oral Blonde days. He was a young kid when Doc brought him into the fold, fresh and freckle-faced. He looked about twelve but he was a muscular little guy and fit right in. I don’t remember the circumstances of him earning the moniker, only that Doc just started calling him that one day, and it seemed to coincide with Bug’s simian pet suddenly disappearing.
After the band suffered its last breath and we all ventured down dissimilar roads, some of us kept in touch. So much so, when Blood Monkey brought a long courtship to fruition and finally tied the knot, he felt compelled to invite some of his old band chums to the wedding. Doc, Bug, The Mayor, Alice and I had all graciously accepted and Chas had signed up as best man.
We arrived and were seated together at a large round table in a corner of a huge ballroom, dimly lit and decorated with the usual wedding paraphernalia, streamers, flowers, balloons, gifts of all shapes and sizes and that air-conditioned freon smell of temperature five degrees lower than it should be.
With our invited guests by our side we chatted and conversed in a jovial fashion. I was in a particularly bad relationship at the time with a girl named Lara. She was hopelessly trapped in the eighties in hairstyle and mentality. Her overall appearance was well shy of being hot and her demeanor barely registered above white trash. In essence, it was a union that should have ended a week or two in. However, she had been in a debilitating car crash the second week and I couldn’t bring myself to be the asshole who broke up with her while she lay in a hospital bed or the ensuing recovering months on crutches. So here we were, still together a good nine months after it should have ended. She was a bad drunk and the open bar wasn’t going to help our evening any.
Somewhere between the dinner and the heartfelt congratulations of best man Chas, Lara had leaned over to me from her little boat of insecurity on the jealous sea, and the accusations had started. "You want to fuck that chick over there don’t ya?"
"Who, the mother of the Bride? Are you for real?"
The band had been defunct for sometime and it had been a while since Alice had booked any of our gigs. I wanted the chance to play catch up. She had been through a host of bad dating experiences until she’d finally found a nice guy who had accompanied her to the wedding and was in the process of bringing me up to speed.
"They’d always bring me gifts for some reason."
"Well you’re a very likable chick Alice."
"No, John you don’t understand these were unusual gifts, whipped-out gifts. The kind you don’t give to a girl on a first date, on any date."
"Like washer fluid, mouse traps, dental floss, a big bag of screws . . . "
"...I see where that was going . . . "
"Oh it didn’t stop there. You want me to go on? Toe nail clippers, talking beer mugs, a budgie..."
"As in bird?"
"Yeah, sept it was the middle of winter and he had a pick-up truck. Tossed the cage into the flat bed and the bird still in it. The poor thing froze to death on the way over. Gave it to me anyway. Said it was the thought that counted."
"What happened to the guy you started dating the last time we were down your way? Rick was it?"
"Ah Rick. Yes. He was alright until I finally got invited over to his place. The wall above his bed was covered in various sized dildos. I didn’t know weather to sleep with him of go rock climbing?"
"Yeah until the KY came out and he started greasing up his own butt. Handed me a strap-on and everything. He also had this fetish for shoes. I couldn’t get any sleep even if I wanted to. He was always waking me up in the middle of the night by trying to shove pumps with spike heels onto my feet as I slept. I couldn’t handle it. I need someone more down to normal, plus he had too much shit hanging."
"Too well endowed was he?"
"No, he had a lot of cold-sores."
We both laughed. "The new guy’s nice."
"Yeah he’s a keeper, treats me good."
Lara budged into our conversation, "Hey! Can I talk to you? Alone!" She tugged on my arm insistently.
"Excuse us Alice," I let myself be led away. "What is so frickin’ important?"
"I’ve been watching you from the bar."
"I’m not surprised. Go on."
In the background the DJ’s voice like the sweetest sugar rolled over the P.A. system out of the darkness. It said, "Let’s have a warm welcome for the Bride and Groom and their first dance together." Polite applause and the glittering beams of a mirror-ball, led Blood Monkey and the love of his life onto the dance floor.
"You want to fuck Alice don’t you? I see the way you look at her. The way you laugh together."
"Alice is a dear old friend Lara. She used to book the band. Now if her sister was here that would be different."
"Don’t they all look the same? Aren’t they twins or somethin’?"
"Quadruplets . . . "
"I don’t care if they’re quad-ra-pa-ledics . . . "
"You’re so drunk you can’t even say it."
"I am not!" she stated, as she placed a hand on my shoulder, more to steady herself than a sign of affection.
The DJ’s voice interrupted us once again, "The Bride and Groom have chosen a special song for this wondrous occasion, The Power of Love." He extended love, so it sounded like luuuuuv. The first notes of the perky pop song from Huey Lewis and the News, burst from the speakers. I glanced at Blood Monkey as he and his Bride remained motionless, their mouths open slightly in disbelief.
"It’s supposed to be Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Power of Love . . . idiot. The guy calls himself a DJ."
"Look at me Johnny damn it. Don’t change the subject and don’t you lie to me! You want to fuck her don’t you?"
"Look, Lara, even if I did, do you think that would be the smart thing to do with her boyfriend here and my soon to be ex-girlfriend at my side?"
"What do you mean EX?" She was becoming more belligerent.
Blood Monkey and his bride were still standing motionless as they were joined by various women kicking off their shoes and hollering as they shuffled onto the dance floor in stocking feet. Some of the women were of Titanic proportions. One must have hit an iceberg because she slid and fell on her derriere but was rescued by some passing ships and soon was bouncing up and down again to the rhapsodic thumping rhythm.
"I asked you a question!"
"Lower your voice. You’re making a scene."
"What do you mean Ex?" She was glaring at me savagely through grit teeth.
"If you keep this up Lara, you will be."
"Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"
I felt my hand clenching into a fist. Would I dare? I’d never hauled off and hit a woman in my life. I’d never hit anyone for that matter, but here was this person nattering on ceaselessly with the most preposterous bile, and suddenly for a brief instant I considered performing a little dental examination with my knuckles.
"You’re going to dump me for that . . . that cunt aren’t you?"
"You WILL NOT! Talk about my friends that way! Do you hear me?!" Her eyes started to well up as I continued, "I can’t be around you right now. You disgust me."
"Don’t walk away from me Johnny. You’ll be sorry."
"Lara, I was sorry a long time ago." I thundered off. I passed Alice on the way out. "This ends tonight. Wait and see." I thrust my fist into one side of the saloon-type doors that led from the ballroom just as Doc came waltzing through the other. "Is everybody happy?" he yelled. He rushed to join the rotund dancing juggernaut of bare feet and nylons.
I walked out of the building for air and did not return until I had time to put my, It’s not you It’s me, speech in order. I guess it’s the standard goodbye blow-off that most people use when they want to dump someone without causing too much of a scene. This was, after all, Blood Monkey’s wedding and I had to be precise in my breakup surgery.
I had reached the end of my wits and was tired of it all. Tired of Lara and her attitude. Tired of her mental blowups that I could set my watch by. Tired of her drab apartment with the parrot colored towels hung crookedly over the rack, the leopard print throw rug, the ubiquitous wolf prints on everything from coasters to dishrags to designs etched in glass candle holders.
They howled at me from the bedroom comforter. They barked at me from the welcome mat. They yammered away from the closet on sweaters of powder blues, ashen grays and kissing pinks. I was tired of Lara and the whole jungle. Tonight it would end and I would march right back in there and tell her so. Another L was about to end up on the alphabetical pile of Ex’s.
When I returned, I could not find her anywhere. I located Alice cuddling up to her new beau in the hallway as they were preparing to leave. "Alice did you see my idiot girlfriend?"
"I think she had too much to drink. She went to throw up I’ll bet. I saw her disappear into the restroom about twenty minutes ago."
"I can’t go into the women’s. Will you do me a huge favor and go in and see if she’s still
"She didn’t go into the women’s. She went into the men’s."
"Sounds like her all right. Ok, thanks."
I walked into the washroom to the echo of retching and the simultaneous grunts and coos of bathroom noises in mid vomit. There was a smell of paper towels, wet with pink liquid soap, and the squeak of shoes on the tiles followed by the occasional banging of a stall door.
"Lara, that you?" The banging and squeaking ceased. The retching however, continued. I identified the offending stall and slowly swung the door in. Lara had her face in the toilet with her dress hiked up to the hips and her bare ass smiling at me sideways. Her dress hung in folds on either side of her legs like curtains off the stage of some adult puppet show. Her knees seemed tied by her black lace panties as if they were being held hostage.
Bug stood over her, his hand still on his zipper barely just pulling it to attention. There was another wretch and I could hear Lara’s voice from the bowl. "Why did you stop?! Don’t stop . . . waugh!"
"Someone’s here," Bug uttered.
Lara again from the bowl, "I don’t care, fuck me . . . waugh!"
Bug pushed by me and I followed him, letting the door swing shut with a bang.
"I’m sorry John . . . I was in here and she just barged in. She said she felt sick."
"Really. How does she feel to you now?"
The toilet belched, "Waugh!"
"I was just trying to help her throw up."
"I see. By pushing her repeatedly into the can with your penis? I’ll have to try that one day."Actually I was jumping for joy inside. There would be no need for the breakup talk now. This was perfect, but I kept my face in a scowl of anger and disappointment. "How could you of all people do this?"
"It just happened."
"I know Lara and I have had our problems Bug, but you should at least wait for the grass to dry before you turn on the sprinkler. You owe me Bug. One day I’ll remind you of that."
Boy I wish I had to take a piss right now. I raised my voice so that it roared off the tiles, "I see you decided to do the smart thing Lara. Have a nice life."
I turned away, trying to conceal my smile, and left them both behind. The satisfaction I felt was one of relief mostly, bordering on euphoric elation. The same feeling you got at the end of that long car ride as you stood in front of the urinal squeezing the hell out of your bladder with you stomach muscles until you achieved that emptiness through a steady stream. It was the slamming of your hand down on the snooze button for another ten minutes in blissful slumber. It was Rolaids relief quelling the burning esophagus and in actuality I owed Bug, not the other way around.
Tomorrow excerpt from: Slow subs and chicken nuts