Sunday, August 28, 2005

...gone tomorrow

Yesterday I posted something on women’s facial hair that received immediate response. It was all spam , but it was immediate. So today, I’m all about the hair....why? Because I just luuuuuve responding to comments by people named anonymous. So here are some links that are hair related and one animal mauling just for good measure. Oh and one for the spammers to better occupy their time.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

The iceman cometh

Weather for the week of Aug. 29th

The remnants of hurricane Katrina will make its way north this week. Those expecting just rain should be forewarned that this system will be met by a cold front from Flin Flon, (now there’s alliteration), and will create some unpleasant nastiness.

It will start with unsettled weather Monday and a severe line of thunder storms. It will be raining cats and dogs my friends, so please keep your felines and canines inside otherwise there will be a population explosion.

With the addition of the cold front on Tuesday, the weather will change to snow. That’s right, snow in August. The rain will freeze and create very icy conditions.

By late week, I wouldn’t be surprised if you hear of a few deaths, as passing Bay street brokers are killed by falling ice chips that sever their necks at the jugular. Enjoy your week.

I’m Gyler Sperling.

Dutch ado about nothing: a week in review

Canada is #4 on the whining chart. A new survey released this week said so. We complain about everything apparently. Look at what we deal with, the weather, (thanks Gyler), the traffic, the shootings, the exchange rate, women’s facial you want me to go on?

Well, if we’re #4 guess who’s #1?

Sweden...ha! You thought I was going to say the Dutch didn’t you? Fooled you with the title didn’t I? No, the Dutch didn’t even finish in the top 5....I just like picking on the Dutch, those clog wearing, 1940 bike riding, red-light-district-hash-smoking, mayo french-fry dipping bastards.

Sweden is #1. SWEDEN! What do they have to complain about? Just look at them, all blonde and beautiful, humping everything that moves. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex and hockey....that’s Sweden. How do you complain about that for Christ’s sake?....Hey, look at me, I’m complaining. Maybe Canada should be #1. What were they thinking, saying we’re #4? That’s it! I’m writing a letter of complaint! Oh fuck it! On with the week....

It started with Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes being fired out of a canon in front of a star studded crowd, (Johnny Depp was there Linds). Not to be out done, The Stones started their, "Bigger Bang Tour," in Boston, where a fan fired herself out of an upper balcony. She survived and should out live Mick and the boys yet.

Moog, the inventor of the synthesizer died at age 71 this week. He changed the face of music with his creation, giving a new sound to Psychedelia, that gave birth to Heavy Metal, which spawned Progressive, that farted Disco, that belched Punk, that clawed out New Wave, that begat big hair, and Grunge, and Gangsta’s a good thing Moog’s dead....a good thing.

Alright, back to those crazy Dutch bastards. They have a new reality show called, "I want your child and nothing else." Several men vie for the chance to donate their sperm for insemination into some hot chick. Think of it as the ultimate survivor.

It’s not bad enough that a single sperm has to compete with its own ejaculate brothers and sisters comparable to the entire population of China, you’ve got six or seven other sperm banks shoving you aside as well. What, are the Dutch high or something? Don't answer that.

You can now loose weight flying Air Canada. That’s right , they’re placing tighter restrictions on baggage dimensions and poundage...and you thought you had to diet.

It was a great week for inventions. Fuck off, and get out of the way Moog.

A kid invented the hamster powered cell phone. Although he has yet to figure out how you get that wheel into your pocket.

The Japanese invented something called Kid’s beer, It looks and tastes like the real thing apparently. It even comes in the same brown bottles. How long do you think before some pedophile does the old swicth-a-roo?

Some soccer mom (It just has to be), was concerned that we weren’t getting enough vegetables in our diet so she decided to invent vegetable flavored ice-cream. Asparagus chocolate chip anyone?

Did you see the Northern lights this week? Quite spectacular, or so I’m told. You see, I live in the city next to Mitchieville and they’re always sucking up the power. There is so much light pollution you can’t see the northern lights. Hell, you can’t see the moon most nights. Who the fuck is minister of the environment anyway?

The reason the Northern lights were so prominent was due to some larger than normal solar flares from the sun in a gassy explosion.....gassy....the sun has gas....huh..huh..that’s funny. Must be all that vegetable ice-cream it’s been eating.

Now you can down load movie-line clips for your hamster powered cell phone did you know that? I think when my phone rings I’d like it to say, "Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me." or, "Say hello to my little friend," repeatedly. Ladies you could program yours to say, "You had me at hello." That would be nice.

There’s a big brew-ha-ha in Muncie Indiana over...well, a brew...ha, ha! The university has banned beer kegs in hopes to curb the increase in alcoholism. Come on! It’s Muncie! What the hell else is there to do besides drink? I suggest a compromise....kegs of Kid’s that acceptable?

They released a list of the body parts from famous people in the music industry that would make up the perfect rocker. Steve Tyler’s lips, Bruce’s butt, etc. Absent from the list was Tommy Lee’s cock. This is the perfect rocker we’re talking about here people, and rockers are promiscuous...very promiscuous....ah the good old days.

I also found it amusing that the chart listed Keith Richards' liver in the mix. You know, it makes sense. Just think of the abuse he’s put that thing through and it’s still working.

The circus came to town this week. They performed in front of massive crowds. There was a high-wire act, a lion tamer, and lots of juggling. There was even a little dog. However, there were only two clowns, Karla Homolka and her former boss Richer Lapointe. Needless to say I didn’t go.

Finally, hurricane Katrina moved out into the Gulf and Karla moved to mid-town Montreal, but you know they’ll both be coming back into the news sooner than any of us care for.

Hair today...

So....I went out again with the same female contingent from a few weeks ago. You remember? The girls who turned the air blue with expletives. There were more "cunts," flying across that table than a Ron Jeremy porno.

Anyway, last night’s topic of discussion, while I sat helplessly by, was women with excess facial hair. We’re talking moustaches, sideburns, moles with long and curlies, even beards. Women with so much business on the sides of their face you could fling them off a fishing vessel and return with the catch of the day. (I’m not sure what that means, but I sure laughed when I wrote it.)

In conclusion, "cunt" I can handle. Say it all you want especially if you’re a woman. Just fire those babies at me, right into the ol' catchers mitt. But women with facial hair? What are you trying to do, make me sick? Talk about deflating my beef syringe.

Helpful factoid #7

Sex sells.

Burying Six Feet Under

It’s all over, after five years of what I consider to be the best series on the boob tube ends its successful run. For me it's bitter sweet. It was a 5 year emotional investment in the characters and I’d have to say the final episode was more than I’d hoped for.

Fittingly directed and written by creator Alan Ball, he took it out as he did when he brought it in. It was inspirational, poignant, and still managed to maintain a sense of itself. He avoided too much "cheese factor," and gladly there will be no jumping the shark here. No reunion show, no made for the big screen movie, just a tearful and well deserved standing O, as an ensemble cast of talented actors leave on top and move on to other promising futures.

SFU You will be missed.

Ok...when's the next Family Guy episode on?

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Blog comment. The new spam.

I went into my comment box as I normally do when I log on. I enjoy reading the venom and the humourous repartee. However, on my recent post, "Payback is a bitch," the one where there’s a picture of me as a hot chick. * touching wet finger to right buttock* sssssss! (I’m not linking it. Scroll down ya lazy bastards), I noticed some idiot left spam touting the benefits of penny stocks.

Upon further investigation, I found this is not a freak occurrence but becoming the norm on many Blogs. Extremely unfortunate that a tool designed as a voice for the common person to reach out with their individual and creative verbalization is being tainted by these imbeciles. There should be a plague of prickly ass thistles in all their arseholes.

So, if you’re reading this with the intent of spamming the comment box, don’t!

I will say now, I am not interested in a bigger penis.
I am not interested in sex with farm animals, (well, not today anyway).
I am not interested in sending money to help Makimba Duku get his fuckin’ non existent inheritance out of U.S. banks.
Although I like riding the skin bus into Tuna Town to visit the Bearded Clam, I don't want to do it at $15 a minute or $39.95 a month, on a Bukkake site with infinite pop-ups and navigational problems at the expense of my firewall.
I’m not interested in your software, your free gifts, your gizmos and gadgets to fix infected computers of a virus I probably got from you in the first place.

To put it succinctly, I do not want to read anything from any raison-balled sacks of fecal waste and your inane gibberish. I hope I’ve made myself clear.

Another five days

So this week marked the 28th anniversary of the death of the King, Elvis that is, (Elvis, Hey king!)....boy, do I ever feel old.

Also, Slick Willie (Bill Clinton), is releasing an album of his favorite songs...just stick the knife in now and give it a twist.

Tommy Lee goes to college? No one informed me...shit, do I ever feel stupid.

Something happened between Madonna and a horse, on her birthday no less, which is all the information I need....really....I don’t want any details to know what went on there...gawd, do I feel sexually inadequate.

Did you know that Leonard Cohen is broke? Yup it’s true. Apparently drugs cost more than I thought. An Icon like that has no money?...Je-sus, do I feel destitute.

Oakland Raider, Randy Moss said in an interview, he has smoked pot, and still does once in a blue moon. Guess what people? Next month there will be a blue moon....Hey Mr. Cohen....Randy’s got some.

At least we know Randy won’t be smoking that fine B.C. skunk weed, since the police will soon be sealing the tunnel constructed between us and our U.S. pot heads. We should be keeping that fine shit here in our country anyway....geesh, am I ever stoned.

A new study says that chocolate does not contain the health benefits they first thought, unless you consider high levels of fat healthy. Another study says that women really crave the average guy as a suitable partner in a relationship over their chiseled hunk counterparts. If that’s so, where are the long lines at my door?...Damn, I feel like I have a small penis, I think I’ll eat some chocolate.

Hey the grand old lady by the lake turns128 this week. No, I’m not talking about Hazel McCallian the Mayor of Mississauga, I’m referring to the CNE. This year the attractions are the best ever. We’re talking the Tilt-a-whirl, Tiny Tom Donuts and a Butter Sculpture...Oooo doggy! Where do I get my tickets?...If only I could borrow a few bucks from Leonard Cohen.

Finally how about that freakin’ weather? I have never seen lightning like that outside of a "B" horror flick. I have seldom driven through horizontal rain while I maneuvered my vehicle through pools of waist-high water on the 401, and the last time they recorded hail that size was in Colorado and they named a city after it, (Back me up Sex). They even had to close the DVP due to the Don River overflowing and flooding the lower half of a major Toronto artery. I think I need to have a little talk with Gyler.

Helful factoid #6: Never go "all in," on a 7, 2 off-suit.

Weather for the week of the 22nd

Ok I screwed the pooch on the weather forecast. I’m a big man. I can admit it when I make a mistake. No use telling you now, I got my predictions mixed up. The torrential downpours that I said were coming were originally for the end of this week past and not the previous week as posted. However, as they say, (whomever "they" are), "onward and upward."

Here are my predictions for the week of August 22nd.

The wet weather will continue through the first half of the week, so those with gimpy arthritic knees or inner ear infections should steer clear vigorous outside activities.

A thick air mass will develop later in the week that will be a perfect breeding ground for the infestation of gnats and teetsie flies.

There is also a slight chance of a tsunami in the Toronto area as a rare seismic lake effect known as a "fart bubble," may cause chaos. So, I would steer clear of Ontario Place and the CNE by Friday. I recommend the CN Tower, as it will provide excellent sight lines should this anomaly occur.

Until next time, I’m Gyler Sperling.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

I feel so left out

The Mayor has his top 10 hot chicks, Linds has her top 10 hot guys, I have nothing...until now. In response and because I fell horribly left out, I will give you a link where you can go and rate some top 10 shit. Enjoy.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Payback is a bitch

Last week I said I would post an incriminating picture of myself as retribution for my callous disregard to the Mayor’s political well-being . So here it is. It was taken during my brief time as a woman. The funny thing was I did it because I thought I would get laid more. Turns out, I started staying home, so I could play with myself. It was a stupid time of experimentation in my life that I now regret and decided to have the process reversed. However, as some of you may know, I decided to keep the breasts.

Actually, I think I'm pretty smart by posting this picture. I'm either going to end up on Mitchieville's top 10 list of hot women or Linds top 10 scrumpdillyicious guys.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Weather report

Before I release Gyler and his weather predictions for the week of August 15th, I’d like to review last week’s report.

Gyler said, we’d have cooler temperatures at the beginning of the week and a nice weekend. Wrong! However, his torrential downpours of mid to late week were bang on, only not of the Noah proportions he anticipated.

I give him a 33% accuracy, above average for a weather man.

Now without further ado, the coming week weather report with Gyler Sperling.

Next week will be dry as a bone. Expect a few tumbleweeds to blow through town and an extreme water alert to be issued. In fact I strongly suggest you make an effort to recycle liquids by drinking your own pee, definitely don’t water your you hear me people of Woodbridge?

These dry conditions coupled with yet another heat wave will be especially hard on small fur-bearing creatures. Don’t be surprised if you have the corpses of mice, rats and the odd hamster littering your roads like they’ve been run over by little, tiny, cars.

Seasonal conditions will return by Friday, but another freakish system promises to be here by the weekend causing a dip in temperatures so prepare to dress warmly.

Until next time, I'm Gyler Sperling.

Another week

It was a big week for lung cancer, just ask Peter Jennings, Barbara Belle Geddes and Dana Reeves. Ok you can’t ask Barbara or Peter, they’re dead, but Superman’s widow still has time.
The only good to come out of it so far is, there has been a record number of people calling to find out how they can quit smoking. But whatever you do don’t call the Mayor for advice on this one.

"Name things that can withstand above average amounts of pain."
"Uh Redheads."
"Show us Redheads!....ding...Number #1 answer."

Right you are, a new survey said that these inhuman, firey-haired, females have a gene that helps them tolerate pain better than their blonde or brunette cousins. I don’t know about withstanding pain but they certainly know how to dish it out pretty good.

The Rolling Stones played a small club in Toronto called the Phoenix, this week. It is an intimate venue that has a capacity of about 800 patrons. People stood in line for over 24 hours for a chance to pick up a $10.00 ticket to see these elderly rockers and many were disappointed when turned away as the turnstiles closed.

Hey my Grandfather is in town. He’s 92, he still dances remarkably well, and knows every Boxcar Willie song ever recorded. I’m sure for a buck a piece, he’d sing them for you and you wouldn’t have to stand in line either.

Helpful factoid #5: A wink’s as good as a nod to a blind bat.

They are already starting to crank up the media machine for the Toronto Film Festival next month. I wonder if that Homolka movie will find a home here after being tossed out of Montreal?

The film originally titled "Deadly," was renamed "Karla," then changed to "Sexual Teenage School Girl Killers." Now in an effort to slide one past the goalie, they are changing the title yet again. Get ready for "Nice Tits, You’re Dead....Arrrgh."

A pastor at a local church on the outskirts of Mitchieville, was lured to a meeting by Police posing as a twelve year old girl in the hope that a sexual encounter would happen. What is this world coming to when those of the religious community are made to suffer with this blatant form of entrapment by law enforcement?....oh wait a minute.....I think I got the story backwards...never mind.

With all the terrorism lurking around corners, the good people here in T.O. have decided we need cameras everywhere to protect the public from these would-be assassins. I’m confused. I thought we already had cameras everywhere? At least that’s the impression I get from the internet. Just type in, "chicks in toilets and change room," or "up-skirts," into your search engine.

Finally, it’s been happening for years, Jesus in a tortilla in Dallas, The Virgin Mary in an oil stain in Albuquerque, deities in dirt streaked windows, pretzels, vomit, you name it. Hell, even the grilled cheese sandwich with God’s #1 son, sold for over $5,000 on E-Bay.

Now, look out! Here comes the Jesus perogie with a bidding price starting at $500 U.S. What’s next, John the Baptist in an underwear skidmark?

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Tit for tat

I have come under some fire since I started posting pictures of the Mayor on my site. Cries of injustice, of how I’m hurting him in the polls, etc. And me, being his campaign manager and all, how could I do this?

To show you that I am not without a sense of fair play, compassion and sensitivity, I am posting a picture of the Mayor’s chief adversary, Jerry Casby.

This picture is of Mr. Casby’s recent, so-called, political trip to Thailand where he paid a young concubine $80 U.S. to perform this lewd act on him better known as the, "Atomic Wedgie." Obviously from the expression on his face he was not expecting to find the ever present eyes of the paparazzi waiting for him.

I also promise to post an incriminating picture of myself in the near future as a token of remorse to my good friend and frequent bath-house buddy, the Mayor.

Man!....They're just not trying anymore

I saw the new Cirque Du Soleil show called, "Corteo," last night. It was a split stage with half of the audience on one side and half on the other. A representation of heaven and earth.

Gone is the elaborate make-up, the colorful costumes, (see picture), the haunting music, hell they didn’t even play Metallica in the second act as I requested....Ok I joke. It was excellent as usual. Visually stunning and stunningly visual.

This was my 5th Cirque show, so I feel that I am somewhat qualified to form an opinion. As stated, although the past trademark visuals were absent, the show still had a Phantomesque feel to it that was more alluring than the costume/make-up eye-candy of the past.

The performances were breath taking and the music was less somber, possessing a joyous life that had started to revel itself in past performances like "Varikai" and "Drallion," but had never stood alone like it does in "Corteo".

Except for a few misplaced and awkward comedic bits, I would strongly recommend this production. The only suggestion I would make,....lose the goggles, barbeque fork and the Chuck Norris DVD.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Move along....nothing to see here

This is the final picture that exists of The Mayor. This was taken shortly after his failed hair implementation/ conjoined head operation. It was a difficult procedure that he eventually decided to reverse. In my opinion, a wise decision.

Is "C" really that bad?

Last night I was out, sitting around a patio table, surrounded by the presence of some fine feminine company. Somehow the subject came up about the appropriate use of the "C" word. I was surprised by the absolute contempt that was displayed for those simple four letters.

It’s the final taboo. The "fuck" of the new millennium, cunt....there I said it. CUNT! Cunty, cunt-cunt-cunt....that actually felt good......maybe I should sing it?...oh cunty, cunty, cunty, cunt.

Not even cock-sucker and mother-fucker are greeted with the same vile as the dreaded "C" word by women. It’s as if it attacks their very being, the essential essence of what they are........anyway, the general consensus by my little female community was, they would use this word only as a last resort at the end of the rage tether, when making derogatory comments toward another female, and that’s it.

Not one said, they would accept such language when stubbing a big toe.
Not one said, they would use it as a road-rage companion when flipping off idiot drivers, or ex-lovers, or dinner time cold-calls.
And not one said, they wanted to hear it in bed during the heat of passion.

I have tried many times to use this word in a, "talk dirty to me," kind-of-way while dressing it up with pretty adjectives like, sweet, hot, wet, and beautiful, (Never use large BTW). Outside of one occasion when I mumbled my phrase through a mouthful of it, was I greeted with anything but the glaring heat of death from dagger eyes.

Of course, my girl D, doesn’t care if I use it in any context. She’s not like other women I’ve known. She doesn’t blink an eye when I use it as I see fit. I can use it to scold a stuck zipper, an empty jar of mustard, or call the cat. It's all good. I don't have to worry about her charging at me with a barbeque fork. She often refers to me as Scab-puss-bucket anyway, so it evens out, (it’s a loving relationship).

The Pandora’s box is open. Comments?

Weather or not

Last week I attended the Camp David style retreat of The Mayor of Mitchieville to discuss campaign strategies with the likes of Fenris, Sargon, Bob Noxious, Ice Queen and of course the beloved Mayor himself.

It was to be a wondrous weekend of seasonal temperatures, outrageous frolic and roasted weenies. Nothing but sun and sand. However, Sunday came and despite the weather predictions of "the perfect weekend", a downpour of significance not seen since last year’s hurricane season in Florida invaded our shangri-la.

Thunder, lightning, hail, more thunder, the weather was so atrocious I decided to hunt down the man who gave out the erroneous information to cottage country and give him a severe lashing about the head and shoulders.

The man in question, Gyler Sperling, offered to make it up to me by posting a few weekend weather blogs on my site. Now, I’m not a violent man, so I took up the pipe of peace by accepting Gyler’s gracious offer. Anyone can make a mistake, right? And the weather guys have been known to make a few. Besides, I could use a break from Blogging. These weekend posts are killin' me.

So without further insult or injury, I present to you Gyler Sperling, splendiferous weather man.

The weather for Toronto the week of August 8th.

A cold front will move in for Monday giving us a much deserved break from the heat, but expect torrential down pours Tuesday through Thursday. We are talking rain of Noah proportions people. It will not be enough to simply grab an umbrella. Move to higher ground and start collecting two of everything. On Friday, those still left alive will enjoy the start of what promises to be an excellent weekend of mild temperatures, although you may want to remain on top of your roof until the waters subside.

If you would like to know the weather in your area simply drop Gyler a line. I’m sure he can check the old radar for your area in a future post.

Same old week

It was another usual week in T.O., the extreme heat alerts, the calls to conserve electricity, the drive-by shootings, the police 400 series highway speed traps, the plane crashes at Pearson International. OK, it’s been 27 years since the last air disaster in the big smoke, you got me there.

The incredible thing about the crash, everyone made it out of the ensuing fire ball alive. Why I myself was trapped on the 401 when it all went down. I witnessed the plumbs of black and grey smoke. I saw the burned out wreckage that still sits there causing traffic chaos as gawkers slow to look. Hell, they are even parking to get the perfect shot on there camera phones.

A long weekend has come and gone, the next, Labor Day will virtually signal the death knell of summer and I’m sure the Police will have another driving blitz, "Operation how many dumb asses can we pull over." This past week it was "The good, the bad, and the rusty." Who thinks up these names?

Some of the lame driver excuses were, "I’m sorry I was speeding officer but..... I forgot my wife’s birthday and had to rush out to buy her a gift....I was potty training my daughter while I was driving....I’ve never broken the speed limit before and wanted to see what it was like...."

Hey, you want people to slow down? I suggest they haul the remains of the France airbus up the 400 and plop it next to Webber’s burgers or in gasoline alley, people will not only slow down they’ll stop to pose with the wreckage.

Guns are getting out of hand in this city. Thanks to the good people south of the border who brought us the invasion of Iraq. Do you know how hard it is to buy a handgun legally in this country? Yet, everyday I’m hearing of innocent people dying, or hurt because they were caught in some gang crossfire. What we need here is an arena, not unlike the ones served up by paintball, and let these punks have at it. Perhaps we should go back to the Romans for guidance? We could pay admission, (with a hefty Ticket Master service charge of course), and view these idiots murder one another.

OK so it was hot.....this is your cue to say, "how hot was it?"...I’m to friggin hot to think of a punch line.

Anyway, there they are telling us to conserve energy. Don’t put on the air-conditioner until 2 AM, don’t use your dishwasher, let the dog lick your plates clean. Don’t do laundry, flip your undies for an extra day of wear.

So, let me ask this: Is Ontario Hydro going to remember that we all bit the bullet and conserved the next time they hike the rates? Of course not. Listen, the next time they tell you to conserve, turn every God-damn thing on in the house, and let them pay for the extra expensive imported power. It’ll serve those assholes right. We’re going to end up paying for it anyway.

Helpful factoid #4: If you beat your kids with a 5lb bag of oranges, it won't leave any bruises.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Excerpt from "The Limits of Respectability"

"This is what we’re going to do," I had said, "Above all, we’re going to suck it up, and bide our time. We have to play a patient game and wait for our opening. It could be next week. It could be a month from now, but when the time is right, we’ll fix our drummer's ass. If this doesn’t make him more manageable then I don’t know what will?"

As it turned out, it was two weeks later at, The Grand Passaglia in Spuzzem. The Grand was not like the other hotels we’d stayed in. It was laid out more like a motel with long narrow horseshoes off each side of the main building. It seemed fairly vacant when we pulled in, with only a few transports and mud-caked vehicles that had lost their way. It’s not like the place was loaded with tourists, Come to Spuzzem – America’s best kept secret.

The accommodations portion of the club was two stories high, with long corridors running from either side of the check-in and restaurant. The bar itself was harbored behind these two areas, a huge rectangle that appeared to have been plopped there from some giant hand. It was located in a desolate place by the highway, with empty fields bordering all sides and an old wire fence stretched down the road in both directions until it disappeared into the underbrush.

When it came time to play, the bar was packed. It must have been the only source of entertainment in the area. The clientele mostly depicted a rougher look than the somewhat pretentious patrons we’d performed for in the past weeks. Welcome to Spuzzem where there’s always a body in the trunk.

It was another great gig for us. Our performance was really gelling and the stage truly looked magnificent with the eye-candy of lighting, parachute backdrop and army paraphernalia. We were still on the Walden high of playing in "A" circuit rooms. But our contact with our drummer Space, outside of performance, had become all but non existent as he was never without a crass insult for what he perceived as his inferiors.

"The first part of the plan gentlemen is we have to get Wally laid more. He has to make
up ground in this ridiculous sex contest. We have to create a sense of urgency that Space will react to."

"I like the plan so far," Wally had responded.

To that end, we’d spent the last two weeks working the room hard between sets to accomplish this task and a very happy Wally, the recipient of our sexual embassy, had closed in on the leader. Space had insisted to anyone who’d listen that he had nothing to worry about, and that we should all concern ourselves with our own sex lives instead of everyone else’s. However, there was a glint of fear beneath the tough talk.

"We all know Space if we put enough heat on him. He won’t want to lose, especially to Wally. He thinks the shit is all behind us now. The law of averages says, there will be no more jealous boyfriends, or spurned lovers, or rampaging husbands. But in the back of his mind, it fucks with him. Plays on his senses. The ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe I shouldn’ts’ eat away at him. I just know it. He’ll put himself in that situation again and that’s how we get him. Just wait and see."

At the end of our week in Spuzzem the staff tossed a little private party after the bar closed. There was a great deal to drink and eat and a bounty of women to choose from. Space was his usual obnoxious self and working the room hard. He was sitting with two brunettes that Doc affectionately referred to as tar-paper blondes, and trying to get them drunk on the free booze.

"Look at Space over there like there’s a blast of sunlight coming from his asshole. Do you know how many points he gets for a three-way?"
"Don’t worry Wally. It’s on for tonight."

"Space knows nothing about Bronson and his ninja parafanailia. I suggest, we get the master key from the desk while Bronson gets his stuff on. I’m talking the whole getup, the black mask, the outfit, the sword, everything. We get him into Space’s room and put him in the closet. He waits there for Space to return with his chosen girl. Once they start having sex, Bronson jumps out with his sword raised and Space shits himself right then and there. He’ll think that this is it. The end where he dies on the blade of a jealous lover."

Doc had expressed concerns about Bronson falling asleep if too much time elapsed. Bronson assured him, "As long as I have a good book to read, no problem."

The party was starting to wind down, and Space seemed excited to get his girl back to his room for a little tag-team action. That was our cue to leave. With silent nods and sideways glances we left one by one and reconvened in the front foyer.
"Wires, Wally, go with Bronson and help get him ready. Doc, come with me."
We split up, heading in opposite directions. There was no one at the desk when Doc and I arrived. I rang the bell. Still no one. "Where the hell is the clerk?"
"It is, three in the morning Sparky," I rang the bell again. Finally a younger man wiping the sleep from his eyes appeared from the back room and aligned his crooked tie, "Can I help you?"
"Yes it appears I left my keys in my room. I need you to let me into 203."
"Hmm 203 . . . 203 . . . 203 . . ." He ran his finger through the registry. "You in the band?"
"Yes, we both are."
"Saw you guys Wednesday. You’re good."
"Thanks . . . perhaps you could hurry."
"Ah here it is 203 . . . you must be a Mr. Space. Is that right?"
"Christ! What a buffoon Space is. He doesn’t even use his real name anymore." I lied through my smile, "No. I’m Johnny Malveen his roommate."
"Hmm, says here Mr. Malveen, you’re in room 208 not 203."
"Yes ah . . . That’s correct. I left my keys for 208 in 203. Surely since I’m in the band, it shouldn’t be a problem letting me into one of my band-mate’s room?"
"I’m sorry Mr. Malveen, we have strict policies here. I can’t let you into another guest’s room even if it is to get your keys. I can let you into your room if you’d like, or you can wait for this Mr. Space to return and let you into his. It’s up to you."
"That’s OK, I’ll wait. Thank you."
Doc and I left the front desk, "What do we do now, oh great joke master?"
"Doc we have to run and get Wires. We’ll get him to jimmy the lock. But we have to hurry, we don’t have much time."

We ran huffing and puffing to the crew room where we found Bronson decked out in his costume. All I could see were his eyes. The rest of his body was black. He held a long curved sword, silver and shining in the soft light. He looked very ominous and intimidating. I stopped short and laughed, "Oh this is going to be so good."
"Yeah but we have a small problem. The guy at the desk won’t let us into the room."
"Wires, can you get us in?"
"Shouldn’t be too much trouble," Wires said, kicking open a tool box that lay at the side of his bed.
"Je-sus Wires. Some times I worry about you."
"Come on guys," I urged, "Let’s do it. Wally run to the end of the hall and watch for Space. It won’t look good if he comes up when we’re all on our knees giving his door handle a blow job."
Wally ran to the end of the hall and pushed his back to the wall at the corner. Occasionally he peered around it, at the stairs ascending from below, like he was on some covert mission. Wires extracted a small case of tools from his back pocket that he’d brought with him, and went to work on the lock. He fiddled with a pointed steel instrument and another one with a small flat end. There was a click.

Wally whispered loudly. "He’s coming! He’s coming! Abort! Abort!" We could hear the door at the bottom of the stairs creak open and heard the combination of laughter amid footfalls as the threesome climbed the steps.
The door to Space’s room swung open. We could see the closet, across from the bed next to a window. "Ok Bronson go! Get in there." Bronson charged forward.
Wally hissed, "Guys! No time! Abort!"
"Shit! Everybody back to the room. Bronson, get out!" Bronson pulled back out. Wires closed and locked the door and we all retreated into the crew’s room two doors down. For Wally it was too late and Space and the girls practically bumped into him coming around the corner. He had a girl under each arm who giggled through a drunken stupor. We had our ears pressed to the door listening hard to the conversation. We could hear Space’s macho bravado laced with suspicion, "Wally. What’s going on here?"
The girls giggled.
"Uh . . . uh."
"Come on Wally," I whispered, "Think of something."
"Sparky this is Wally we’re talking about," Doc reminded as he pressed his ear back to the door.
"Well Wally? Can’t you see I’m busy? Out with it. Why are you skulking around corners?"
"I thought . . . I thought, that since you had two girls with you I could join you."
"You thought you could join us? Huh," Space looked at the girls. "Funny Wally, I don’t see a girl here for you. You’ll have to get your own, that’s if you can find one that you can blow up at this late hour."
The girls giggled some more.
"Wally, my advice. Don’t go where you’re not wanted. Come on girls we have business to attend to. The business of pleasure." There was further giggling.

We heard them approach. The key slid in the door Wires had closed only moments ago. It opened. In they walked and then SLAM! the door was shut. There was a weak knock at our entrance, and we opened it to find a pathetic looking Wally. "Well I guess we wait for another time?" He sounded downcast.
"No! We do it tonight. This is perfect. We can’t pass up an opportunity like this. I thought he’d have only one girl but he has two! No, we have to find a way somehow."
"Sparky what about patience, waiting for the right time, picking our spot."
"Fuck patience! Fuck picking our spot! This is the right time!"
Bronson mumbled something.
"What did you say?"
He pulled his mask down, "Perhaps there’s another way I can get in there without them noticing?"
Wires spoke, "His window was open. Space likes the fresh air. Maybe we can boost Bronson up to the ledge and he can get in that way?"
"Let’s try it."

There was renewed energy and hope was rekindled, as quickly and quietly, we stole out of the room and down the hallway to the exit. The four of us continued on with our dark figured ninja, creeping around the exterior of the hotel to the back where we could see Space’s window on the second floor. It was open as Wires had said, and there was a faint glimmer of light from within.
"Bastard! He left the light on so he could watch too!"
"Wouldn’t you Wally?"
"Yeah. But I’m not the asshole here."

There was a row of garbage receptacles below, sheltered by a wooden hutch that sat against the first floor wall. "What do you think Bronson?"
Bronson mumbled something.
He again lowered his mask to his mouth, "I said, no problem. Give me a hand to get on the garbage box and I can hoist myself up from there."
"Excellent!" I said excitedly, "Once you’re in position, give us five minutes to get back up to the door so we can listen."
Bronson gave me a thumbs up. Doc and Wires helped him get on top of the shelter. I was impressed how quiet and agile he was. Without much effort, he pulled himself into position atop the window ledge, and waited there with his sword out. From a distance he looked like a black cat enjoying the coolness of the night and nothing more. The rest of us circled back, hurrying to get into position and waited with nervous silence at Space’s door for things to unfold.

Silence, then the gentle squeaking of a bed, a moan, more silence. We tried desperately to stifle our snickers. Doc uttered softly, "What’s he waiting for?"
"Maybe Bronson fell off the ledge?" Wally whispered.
"Shhhush!" Another moan, silence . . . and then . . .

— There was a thud and a voice, "Ah-ha!" followed by a terrible commotion of screaming and yelling that I had not heard in some time, female, male, solo and in unison. It was a symphony of shrieking, thumping and banging and the sounds of things knocked over in the melee of tornado voices accentuated by another, "Ah-ha!" then silence once more. At one point there seemed to be crying, (more like blubbering really). Then the voices rose up again and commenced into more shouting. There was a hint of laughter and cooing, then more yelling and screaming.

The door flung open. Bronson raced out nearly bowling us over in the process. Doc, Wally, Wires, and I collected ourselves as one of the girls, naked and hot on Bronson’s heels, stopped short in her tracks when she saw us. She screamed and slammed the door. We looked at each other and then burst into a Vesuvius of laughter.

We headed down the hall to retrieve Bronson. We found him in his room panting and giggling laying face up on his bed. Down the hall we heard our drummer slam the door as the two women collected their belongings and left. Space had pleaded for them to come back but to no avail.
"God Bronson What the hell happened in there? We heard a hell of a ruckus and then nothing."
Bronson had removed his mask and sat up gasping as he continued to laugh. He soon had us all holding our bellies begging him to stop, but wanting him to go on, every detail, every nuance, every raise eyebrow and quivering lip. We wanted to eat it all up.

"I could hear them in there on the bed. It seemed like I was up there for hours. My legs were starting to cramp so I decided it was now or never. I flung myself through the window with the sword held high and I screamed out in anger, which probably sounded more like shock cause there they all were, a flesh convention right in front of me. The two girls were in a sixty-nine position having at it, and Space was standing at the side of the bed with his bare white ass to me working the top girl doggy style. Then . . . then," Bronson paused to laugh and we all joined him, "Space spun around. His eyes were so full of terror. I think his dick made a slight popping sound as he pulled it out, and the thing spiraled around a few times until it was completely flaccid."
Welcome to Spuzzem- From erect to flaccid in 2.3 seconds.
"The girls were screaming and Space was grabbing frantically at the covers trying to hide himself, or protect himself, I’m not sure which. He fell backward over the edge of the bed into a gap between the bed and the wall with a clump of covers on top of him. The girls were clutching one another in fright and had moved to the opposite side of the bed. I think that’s when I sprang forward onto the bed yelling and pointing the sword blade directly at Space’s face as he clutched the blankets and brought them up to his nose. His eyes were so wide with fear, I can’t tell you."
"I wish I could’ve seen that," Wally lamented as he wiped away tears of laughter. Even Wires mostly stoic demeanor was one of mirth.
I urged him on, "What happened next Bronson?"
"Yes tell us!" Doc insisted.
"Then Space began to cry. His eyes welled up with tears and they poured from him. He begged me to spare his life. Do you believe that? He actually thought I was going to kill him. That I was the crazed boyfriend of one of the two girls and I had come to decapitate him."
"Or worse...cut his balls off."
"How is that worse Wally? Decapitated you’re dead, castrated you just sing higher."
"Doc let Bronson tell the story. God! What happened then?"
"It got quiet, except for him repeating, please don’t kill me, over and over. So I told him it was me. That it was all just a joke."
"You told him it was a joke. Shit! What did Space say to that?"
"He said, ‘What?’ I had my mask up I guess he didn’t hear me. So I lowered the mask and he saw that it was me. That’s when things got crazy again. The girls realized I was one of the band and attacked me, trying to get my clothes off. I guess they thought it was game on again? I pushed them off because I could see the realization slowly sinking in with Space. He’d been made a fool of, and I didn’t want to stay there any longer. That’s when you guys saw me as I ran from the room."
"Wow!" Doc said in awe. We were caught in our own silence now looking at one another. Then Doc said, "Tell the story again!"

We all lay in hysterics in Wires and Bronson’s room. My gut hurt from laughing so much. We all had red faces and just a glance at one another sent us into further fits. Everything had not just gone perfectly, it had been better than any of us had expected. Somewhere down the hall Space was busy trying to put up a brave face to cover his humbling abasement and rebuild
the shards of a fractured ego.
Welcome to Spuzzem home of the unexpected surprise!