Saturday, June 30, 2007

SIS #33

the limits of respectability
chapter thirty-three - phallus in wonderland


Journal entry- Day 72- It’s been a long two days in the back of the truck. Our journey home has not been an easy one. The constant mind games are there, you know . . . the mental hopscotch . . .could we have done anything differently to change the outcome, or was this all preordained, a destiny set-list, written in stone by the rockin’ roll gods? Had it been right there in front of us hanging off a stage monitor all along. . . fourth song into the night, ‘The song is over/ the band is finished’? Wires has pulled over to allow us to stretch our legs. The Ghost needs a belly full of fuel to fill the yawning hunger of an empty tank. Space’s money has held out, although our optimism hasn’t. Somewhere in the ashes of all this a phoenix will rise . . . I hope.

My concept of time was in flux over the wear and tear of the endless miles. Seconds, minutes, hours, seemed no different to me, melting into the same cadence the moment we crossed those tracks out of Bugtussle. All I knew was, it was late and there was still pavement to pound, between here and home amid the darkness, somewhere in the second day of our long journey.

Wires stood next to the pump. He flicked the ashes of a nearly spent cigarette in the direction of the gas hose and nozzle, tempting catastrophe, teasing fate. Perhaps it would be better if we all went up in a blaze of glory in a puzzle of severed limbs, spiraling into the blue, sky rocketed by exploding pumps, kicking our collective butts into the hereafter? All of us except for Wally, who had managed to find some spare change in the bottom of his duffle bag. He now wagged his derriere over the candy bar counter inside a small kiosk display of impulse items. Things certainly couldn’t be worse, could they? Doc had asked the very same question earlier and now I found myself repeating it. After all, we had no agent, disgruntled musicians, a dismal future, and a tour suddenly cut short at the knees. The clock was ticking and we, the diminishing assets, were spiraling into the black hole of the musical black list. Spike’s impatience had been growing with each passing mile to match Space’s desperation. Casey . . . hmm, in my opinion, she’d left mentally the day she arrived. Wires, seemed somewhat mechanical and Bronson sat in silence, perhaps meditating, slipping into some inner sanctum away from the chaos. With each twenty-dollar bill Space peeled out of his wallet, Doc’s disgust grew, and I . . . I felt dead inside, devoid of emotion, letting the current carry me where it would. As for Wally? Wally was Wally, his hardest mental struggle was, peanuts or raisins.

Wires gave the nozzle one final squeeze and a shake like he was standing at a urinal, the only thing missing was the zipping motion. He returned the hose to its anchor and shut the pump down. He glanced around for Space, pausing only to light up and accumulate a new cloud of smoke. Above us dark clouds, cold and grey, whisked by in a silent fury. Space was still working the phones, checking for messages, a last ditch effort to find us work, if work didn’t find us. Any
work would do. The bills still had to be paid, the machinery had to churn. Space had regained his focus after his near meltdown and Bronson’s verbal undressing.

Wally returned with half an Almond Joy bar, the other half, presumably, being chewed and swallowed— the start of a journey leading through twists and turns of intestine to the grand exit amid trumpeting flatulence. Doc watched his approach with feigned interest. “Why don’t you just eat the damn chocolate rabbit, Wally?”

“I thought I’d save it for a special occasion. I ate the Jesus though.”

Doc shook his head, “All of it?”

“He’s obviously not a church goer,” I added.

“...and Spike’s worried about the curse of the J’s? Je-sus! I think you’re about to experience the scourge the next time you’re on the toilet after ingesting all that cheese, Wally.”

Spike warned. “I’m going stir crazy. Can we stop talking nonsense and just get the hell out of here? I want to get home.”

“Sure,” Wires said. “Once Space gets off the phone and pays for the gas.” He turned out the white insides of his pockets to accentuate the point and flicked a piece of fluff away into the wind. Spike huffed and climbed back into the Ghost next to a sleeping Casey. Bronson and a grunting Wally, mouth full of chocolate, followed close behind. Wires stuffed his pockets back in and winked at Doc and I. Space finally joined us with his news. He spoke triumphantly. “We’re at The Golden Horseshoe next week.” He knew it was the one gig that would appease the natives and hold back the hangman from pulling the lever to leave him swinging with boots
kicking. The Golden Horseshoe was close to home and one of those clubs where we were absolutely loved. They did great business when we were there, for some unexplained reason. We could walk in blindfolded, belch into the microphone, and still blow the doors off the place. Space had always had a tight bond with the owner, in a father-son relationship, and could call on his adopted parent in times of need. It didn’t get more needy than this.

One by one, we were all dropped off. Space, then Doc, Wally, Spike, Casey and Bronson. Finally, Wires pulled up to the house cradling the basement apartment where Lorraine and I lived, for how much longer I didn’t know. In my conversations with her, there had been growing unrest concerning our landlords and she was adamant about still wanting to move. As much as it seemed inevitable, I hated those winds of change, fighting long and hard to maintain normalcy. I needed some place away from the tumultuous road where I felt had some stability.

I said goodbye to Wires and off he drove in the Ghost to his family's home in the west end. The ruby glow of the coming morning grew in the east. Red sky in morning . . . sailor take . . . ah who gives a flying frig? I’m too tired and worn out. I had grabbed my personal items, but left my food trunk with the equipment. I could have lifted the empty case quite easily, but thought twice about hauling it down the stairs at such an early hour. Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud!...Honey I’m home!...No shit! I’d probably be needing it in the weeks to come anyway? Soon, we’d be out there in the small insignificant black dots of a map, in a town barely registered in an atlas, in a footnote of the undistinguished.

I shuffled up the side passage and through the creek of our gate to the basement entrance. Quietly I slipped my key into the lock and opened the door, creeping down the steps with stealth precision. Christ, I just want to get into a bed that doesn’t thump with every pothole. Where I don’t feel the crushing bodies and intruding elbows of my fellow band-mates probing uninvited crevices.

I stripped down to my underwear leaving a trail of clothing on the floor. I would deal with it in the morning. I entered our bedroom trying to be quiet and not wake Lorraine. The blinds on the window were closed, blocking out all early morning light. Not that it mattered, I could have slept through an atomic bomb. I was about to pull the covers back and slide into bed when a dark figure sat up in bed and a male voice, deep, and ominous, yet with a trace of fear rang out. “Who’s there?”

Oh great! She did move and forget to tell me. I’m in some stranger’s house standing in their bedroom in nothing but my under things. I’m thankful I didn’t take it all off, or I’d be in a real pickle, bare assed in the dark— phallus in wonderland if-you-will. Now, I’m about to get shot or arrested for trespassing, or being a pervert. Is there any other alternative?

I thought in the past few days I had reached the cellar of my ambition and will. Now I was going to find there was a sub-level and a whole new low; a black pit inside the void.

The man demanded, more forceful this time. “Who’s there?” There was a glint in the darkness like a gold tooth, or was it just a trick of the eye? Maybe he was frothing at the mouth and was just seconds away from lunging at me and ripping me to pieces, claiming self-defense to the authorities as he stood over my mangled remains.

“Oh I’m so sorry I must have wandered into the wrong house by mistake. I’ve been traveling for two days and I’m tired and . . . It’s a long story . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .” I’m standing in my underwear. This is just great! I’m so dead.

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

There was a sigh as another body stirred beside the man, making a slow climb to consciousness.

“Sp . . . Sp . . . Sp,” I was freaked. I couldn’t spit out my own name. That bitch! How could she just move and not tell me?

“Sp, sp, sp?” The man said. “What kind of name is that?”

“I...uh . . .”

The other person in bed was now coming out of sleep and spoke in a groggy tone. “Johnny? Is that you?”

“Lorraine?”

“Johnny? You’re home early. I didn’t expect you to— ”

“— I didn’t expect you two, either,” I said.

The man spoke again. “Sparky?”

I suddenly recognized the voice. “Magic? ....What the fuck is going on here?”

Friday, June 29, 2007

New release this week

It certainly isn't Sam the Record Man, who is closing the doors for good and topped off the finale with a good old fashion auction of memorabilia.

In honour of Sam's and the memories I have of those spinning neon discs as a child while I was being ass-raped in the alley across the street, I'd like to give you a few of the best sellers from "Sam's: The Early Years".

Who could forget the #1 album that first week?



Or the rest of the cool swingin' 60's?



Sam's was a leader in the sale of comedy albums.



Remember the 70's?



Sam's catered to all genres including the first albums exclusively for gay men.



Sam's never failed to change with the times....



....well, I guess except for downloading. That's why they went out of business. Anyhoo, we'll miss you Sam the Record Man.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Nearing the end of the week by the numbers

20 ridiculous action movie sequences.

10 video tribute to Scott Baio. It’s like driving by an accident involving a couple of Clown Cars and there’s blood ,guts and the carnage of happy painted faces everywhere. You have to look.

The top 25 ridiculous band names.

25 car names that are funnier with the word "Anal" inserted in front of them. Hey, I wonder if this would work with the Scott Baio link?

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

It's so, hot

How hot is it?

It's so hot, I can't be bothered to do a "It's so hot" joke. So here's a link of our little- now very annoying- friend the Dramatic Chipmunk/Prairie Dog/ Squirrel/ Robert De Niro understudy/ whatever- literally jumping the shark.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Jackass Wars

With Live Free, Die Hard, Smack a Baby, Marry an Ugly Woman, set to hit theatres this week, let's look at another film that didn't make the cut for this Summer blockbuster season.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Show me your nuts

Which shouldn’t be too hard since today is the Gay Pride Parade in the Big Smoke- the most successful event of its kind, responsible for bringing in millions in tourist dollars.

Personally I’ll just remain home and celebrate quietly....not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’ll get out the old Cher and Rocky Horror vinyl LPs out of the closet (no pun intended), maybe put on a wig and boa and have a blast, with GIGC and the cat as my witnesses.

If like me, you’re into staying put with your debauchery, instead of a drunken public display of alternative lifestyles, perhaps I can make a few recommendations for your listening pleasure?





I’m sorry you have the Wong number

China has been forced to mull the possibility of allowing double-barrelled surnames in a break with the ancient tradition that citizens adopt one of a hundred single character surnames.

The top ten Chinese surnames are: Wang, Li, Zhang, Liu, Chen, Yang, Huang, Zhao, Zhou, Wu.

The official total of permitted surnames is 161, but this doesn't do much to offset the fact that there are now 93 million Wangs in China - albeit very tiny wangs- something which is causing the authorities a bit of a problem.

Proposed additions to surnames are: Hung Low, Sum Yung Guy, Jones, Smith, Wong Way, Biff, and Angel-Drawers- just to name a few.

Police Official, Xang Biff Angel-Drawers, explained that "there are so many people who share an identity that it is becoming confusing", a name like Wang Tao is shared by no less than 100,000 people. "You can see how police work can be very difficult."

Journey begins as Sopranos end

Whatever you think of David Chase’s weird ending to “The Sopranos,” there’s no denying that the final song, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin,” was a catchy, slightly kitschy choice of music. So catchy that one might be tempted to buy into the theory that Chase’s bizarre final scene was in fact a giant practical joke.

Of course it's no practical joke for Journey who have seen sales, airplay and downloads of their music increase in some cases up to 600%.

But if that song absolutely drives you over the edge, you can access this link. You can insert your own music over the ending sequence. Try the theme from "Curb Your Enthusiasm". By far, a much better choice.

Thou shall not flip me off


The Vatican has issued 10 Commandments for drivers. The 36-page document called Guidelines for the Pastoral Care of the Road outlines suggestions for those who need a little direction while behind the wheel to keep them from travelling on a highway to hell.

Some of my favorites, in no particular order are:

Thou shall not pick up hookers, drug addicts, gay, lesbian, or trans-gendered people.
(In other words: Avoid the Toronto downtown core this weekend.)

Thou shall not covet thy neighbours stick shift.

Thou shall put no SUV before thy God.

Thou may pray unless praying for the light to turn green.

Thou shall not pick, scratch or otherwise pleasure thy self behind the wheel.

Thou shall not take the lord’s name in vain unless a GPS system and a midget are involved.

Thou shall not use thy steering wheel as a drum set during Rush songs.

OK I was just kidding about the last one...oh and all the ones that preceded it. But don't you think I should be working for the Vatican?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hacker

A hacker named Gabriel claims to have hacked into the computers of Bloomsbury, the publishing house that distributes the Harry Potter books. The hacker claims to have used a browser exploit to gain access to the final Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Gabriel has posted a major, and I do mean MAJOR spoiler which happens near the end of the story.

I in turn am going to post the spoiler here. Why? Cause I’m a prick.....and here it is.......Are you ready?

*Warning: Spoiler*

Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father.

There. No need to buy the book now.

Great moments in Pottahawk history

The attack of Godzilla Johny Wad in '03



Idol search on idle

OK, so last week wasn’t really a video replay of a Private Sector rehearsal, It was however, a band we were considering as our opening act for the up coming tour.

Unfortunately, they are already booked and will be touring various tool sheds in Austria this fall.

Therefore, the search is on for the perfect opening act who will suck just enough to make us look and sound spectacular.

Feel free to cast your votes for whoever you feel would be the best representative. Here are two worthy combatants vying for our interest.

First we have Bunchoffuckincrybabies.



Secondly we present Butch, Alvin's cousin twice removed, the fourth Chipmunk that was kicked out of the band for obsessive heroin use.



The voting lines at Sector Idol are now open.

Cross posted at Mitchieville.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

SIS# 32

the limits of respectability
chapter thirty-two - the white chocolate rabbit and the cheese Jesus


Journal entry- Day 68- We have struggled through the rest of this week hovering just above madness, braving the elements, the severe temperatures, (mostly on stage), the verbal abuse from the clientele, and the scraping pangs of hunger. On Thursday there was still no word from Walden- an alarming signal. Space doled out a twenty-dollar advance to each of us to help get through the remainder of our stay in Bugtussle, but an atmosphere of doom and gloom has permeated the band. Our stage performance has been lifeless and unenthusiastic. Levity is nonexistent. It’s only a matter of time before something, or someone else comes undone.

“How did we end up at the bottom of this escalator?” Doc asked. “Things were looking up. I was even writing my acceptance speech for the many awards we were going to win. Now it’s all gone.” Doc snapped his fingers. “Just like that. And here we sit on God’s great sphincter waiting for a fart to oblivion.”

“That’s a little harsh, Doc, don’t you think? Although I like your description. All’s not lost, it’s just postponed. We have to decide what to do with the downtime while we recharge the batteries. Change our direction.”

“You’re starting to sound like Space.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing?” Actually I felt rather chipper sitting with Doc in the coffee shop. It had been bleak all week but now at least the sun was shining through the elements. Tonight, thankfully, would be our last night in front of all the nobodies at Flap Jack’s and we’d be moving on. It was a comforting thought since any place was better than our current surroundings.

“So how do you propose we change things, Sparky? Come on, you’re the answer man, the guy with the ideas. Don’t go, Wally, on me now.”

“I don’t know exactly, Doc, but something will happen to make it clear. An act of God, if you believe in such signs.”

Doc motioned to our sound-man. “Here comes your act of God now.”

Wires walked into the coffee shop and joined us at the table. He plopped his sketch book down in front of himself but did not open it. I could see he’d been working in it heavily in the past few days and many of the pages had been dog-eared. Many times the band’s misery had been a gift to his creativity.

Doc tried to sound gleeful but came across more sarcastic.“What’s the good word my man?”

“The word’s not good Doc. Did you expect any different? – Hey you shaved your mustache off. I’m going to have to redo all my drawings.”

“I felt I needed to make a change,” Barlow replied. He ran his fingers over his naked upper lip. “Change is good especially in a town like this, but I feel so naked.”

“What’s going on Wires?” I said hoping this wasn’t going to affect my mood.

“Space finally got hold of Walden this morning. There is no gig next week.”

Doc erupted. “Bastard! No wonder he was avoiding us. I knew it! So what do we do, panhandle? Be buskers in a town where no one gives a shit?”

“Sell Wally to medical science for ten bucks?” I chimed in.

“Walden wants us to stay here and wait for a back-end.”

“A back-end? Wires, that’s bullshit!” Doc declared. “We know it. You know it. Space is the only one who’s lying to himself. He’s still living in the land of Rock Star La-de-da.”

“I know. We’re screwed big time. We either wait here for the gig that will never come and then have no money to get home . . . or . . . we go home.” Wires looked at me as he finished his sentence. It was clear the latter part of his statement was the course we should take, and he was waiting for my confirmation.

“I think we should pull the troops out of Nam and go home.”

“I agree with Sparky,” Wires said. “And Bronson will be on board. Spike and Casey have had enough, I know that. So . . . There’s a majority right there. What do you say Doc?”

“Let’s go home. I don’t want to stay in this place one minute more than I have to. Those sheets make me itch.” Doc grimaced and started to scratch his stomach through his sweatshirt.

Wally walked by the window of the coffee shop. Only his nose and his smile were visible, peeking out from the fur rim of his parka. He held his arms aloft. In them he had two submarine sandwiches, one in each mitten, like he’d just returned from a fishing excursion and was grasping the ones that didn’t get away. Doc waved him in. He bounded into the shop like a little puppy.

“What you got there Wally?”

“Food, Doc.”

“I see Wally. For who?”

“Just me, myself and I.”

Wires jested. “Shouldn’t there be three subs then?”

“I would have, but it was the last of my money.”

“Wally we were just discussing our travel plans for next week and we’d like your input.”

“Is this a joke? You want my input?” His nose moved from side to side nervously under his parka hood, as if he was awaiting a sneak attack from behind.

“Would you remove that ridiculous fur thing, Nanook, so we can see you?” Doc reprimanded. Wally transferred his subs to the same hand and pulled back the hood.

Wires continued. “We can either stay here or— ”

“— Stay here? Fuck no! Let’s get the hell out.”

“That just leaves Space. Wires you want to tell him what the band’s decided?”

“Sure right after we finish loading, Sparky.”

Our last night in Bugtussle, was a joyous occasion, a huge celebration of slaves finally released from the cotton fields, and it showed. Our performance was back to what we all expected, with a little extra gusto, even with the restrictive manacles of our layered clothing. When the crowd heckled us, we gave it right back, smiling and laughing and jumping around even more. I made jerk-off motions on my bass with it sticking between my legs. Space’s face was priceless, the picture of puzzlement as he was the only one who had no idea we’d be leaving for home after the show. It felt good to take charge of our lives again, jettison more agent baggage like an excretion of fecal remnants. Suicidal? Perhaps, but satisfying for now, and it was all that mattered to us.

“Sparky. We should probably tone down the taunting, or we’re gonna get our ass’s kicked.”

“You ever see a drunk guy try to fight in snowshoes, Doc? It’s not pretty. Besides we have Bronson. Don’t worry I’m packed and ready to go. We’ll be out of here in no time and if Space wants to stay he can hitch a ride home.” But there was no ass-kicking to counteract our belligerence and Flap Jack’s cleared out at the end of the night with minimal incidents and maximum insults, just as it had done all week.

Space went to get the rest of our pay from the bar manager and call Walden one last time. We started to tear the equipment down. When we had nearly finished, he returned looking like he’d just lost game seven in the bottom of the ninth.

Doc sounded like he was talking to a two-year-old. “Awww, Still no giggy-wiggy for next week?”

“No. Gary says he’s, ‘still working on it.’ The bar manager told me there’s a motel three hours south of here called The Four Leaf Clover. It’s cheap and we can stay there. He needs the rooms here for the next band.”

“You mean someone else has pissed in Sleezyk’s margarita, or Walden’s, or whatever-fuck-agent? That’s hard to believe?” I said.

“There is one other problem.”

“Only one?” Wires said as he wrapped up a cable near to us.

Space anguished. “After everything’s paid, we don’t have a lot of money left.” I could see Doc calculating expenses in his head.

“So what else is new?” I replied.

Space continued. “We’ll have to share a room at the motel.”

“What, all eight of us? In a double bed?” Memories of my first gig ever, came flooding back to me.

Doc said jubilantly. “I’ll alert Guinness! It has to be a world record.”

“Probably not, Doc. They shoot pornos in rooms like that,” Wires said.

“You’re right. Silly me. What about the agent’s cut? I say fuck ‘em let’s use their money. After playing here this week, I’d say they deserve to get the same ass-probing we’ve been taking.”

“Walden and Sleezyk have the percentage taken off the top by the bar owner. They’ve been screwed before.”

I blurted out. “I know what that feels like.”

“Are we ready Wires?”

“Half an hour, give or take.”

“Good! Get your personals guys. We should move.”

Within the hour we were leaving Bugtussle behind in a cloud of dust and spitting gravel thumping across the train tracks that had marked the beginning of our week in hell. There was a collective sigh of relief as the Ghost’s tires once again kissed pavement. Wires picked up the pace and we thundered down the road, slicing through the quiet night. Headlights loomed in the distance as if we were driving into a black mirror. With the flatness of the land, the two lights seemed to hang in the air forever, growing slowly, until they, and the bus they were attached to rumbled by us.

Doc said. “Hey, wasn’t that Badd Kredytz’ tour bus?”

“Where they headed?”

Wires spoke between drags. “Only one place at the end of that road, Wally.”

“I never thought I’d say this about them,” I said, “ . . . but those poor bastards.”

“Suddenly I don’t feel so bad,” Space added.

We drove on. Further into our travel, a visible sign, peeked out from the tree line on the right hand side of the road. It was The Four Leaf Clover motel and its neon vacancy was now perceptible. Wires did not slow down, blowing by the place like it was a mirage.

“Wires! What are you doing? That’s the place we’re heading to. Turn around!”

Wires blew out a cloud of smoke. “No Space! We’re not stopping there. We’re going home. All of us.”

“Neville you can’t make decisions for everyone!”

“I didn’t, we all decided, and it’s Wires, Space. Don’t ever call me Neville again. You’ve never earned the right.” Wire’s voice remained calm, eerily calm. Space didn’t know what to say to this new insubordination. He was at a loss for words, something that seldom happened.

Finally he uttered. “All of you decided this?” He looked around to affirmative nods.

“We all made the decision,” Wires reaffirmed. “So you can either give us the gas money when we need it, or get out and help push when we run out of fuel. The choice is yours, but we’re going home, that’s definite.” I was so proud of Wires standing up to Space like he did, finally taking control, realizing his potential. There was no doubt in my mind, if he wanted to, he could overcome his stage fright and follow his dream. He could perform in front of an audience, express himself through his guitar playing. He could make it happen, this was the first step.

“Suit yourselves. It appears I have no say in the matter. But we’re cutting our own throats I’m telling you.”

“Better we cut our own, then wait for the agents to do it for us,” Doc retorted. "suicide's more preferably to me than execution."

Space sat in silence for a long time as if his mind was struggling to process the information. Everything was suddenly out of whack in one of Doc’s alternate universes. There were times I observed him, I actually thought he was going to cry.

“I’m hungry.”

Spike grit his teeth in annoyance. “You’re always hungry Wally.”

“I have to eat regularly or my stomach gets upset.”

“Five o’clock in the morning is regularly?”

“He’s right Spike,” I agreed. “You didn’t have to room with him all week, and believe me, you don’t want the smell in here. Because as they say in the music business, Wally’s reek ‘has definite crossover potential.’”

Wally grabbed a small white plastic bag he had brought on board with him and started to rummage through it. “It’s all right Spike. I have something here. It’s not like we have to stop, or pull over. But . . . what to eat first? What to eat?" Wally pulled out a white chocolate rabbit from his bag, like it was a magic trick, and what looked like a cheese Jesus. The Easter rabbit was still protected by a cardboard box and sealed in plastic. It gaped at us with one pink, paranoid, candy, eye. The cheese Jesus was marbled and praying skyward minus the crucifix.

“Je-sus, Wally.”

“That’s right, Doc.” Wally wiggled the cheese figure at Barlow. “I was going to eat the rabbit first but if you insist.”

“I’ve seen it all now,” Spike laughed. “The white chocolate rabbit and the cheese Jesus, together again for the first time. Only you, Wally.”

“What? I’m hungry.”

I bemoaned. “Couldn’t you find something more . . . normal . . . like . . . I don’t know . . . kippered beef?”

Doc shook his head in disbelief. It seemed he was doing that a lot to Wally these days. “I don’t know what I find more disturbing, the fact that you were able to find an Easter bunny in the middle of December, in a remote location like Bugtussle, or the fact someone had the audacity to make a deity out of a dairy product?”

Wally began to remove the protective covering on the Jesus, making it crackle.

“Where did you find a place open in Bugtussle at such a late hour? That town shuts up tighter than a drum after six.”

“I stole some things from the fridge in the kitchen when no one was around Sparky.”

Spike said. “Those monstrosities were in the fridge in the kitchen? Boy am I ever glad we’re going home.”

Space came out of his coma. “Wally! Shit what if the bar complains to Gary or Sleezyk? We’ll get black-listed. We can’t afford to take a chance like that. How could you be so stupid? Wires, turn the truck around! We have to go back and return them.”

“Fuck Walden! And Fuck Sleezyk! Fuck Bugtussle! Fuck the white chocolate rabbit and fuck the cheese Jesus! Fuck you Space! And Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! FUCK THEM ALL!” Silence. . . and not just from Space this time, from all of us. Wally had stopped unwrapping his Jesus. Spike cupped Casey’s ears so hard she let out a little whimper. Doc and I just gazed at each other in a stunned hush, our mouths gaped wide. We couldn’t believe Bronson had just gone ballistic. He was so quiet, so reserve, so . . . Bronson. This definitely was a day of firsts.

“I’ll bet that was therapeutic for him?” Doc whispered to me. Wally bit the head off his religious icon and started to chew. Finally Space managed to verbalize a few words, like a little boy who knows he has done wrong and tries to defend his actions anyway. “It’ll get better, Bronson, you’ll see.”

Doc mumbled to me. “It can’t get much worse.”

“No Doc I think Space is right this time. It is going to get better . . . For some of us anyway.”

Friday, June 22, 2007

New release this week

This week I recommend: Tubby Boots- Goes Topless.....But let it be know it was under duress. I was at gun point by the Coalition for Over-sized Women, two minutes away from being strung up by my feet and having my bare ass pumped full of chip-dip in front of a hoard of angry plus-sized gals with bags of Ruffles.



Say, do you think Ms. Boots is a Senators fan?

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Getting Thursday by the numbers

Forget Summer officially arrives today and from now on the days get shorter in a long slow death into winter, we have more important things to attend to you and I....like.....

10 obscure beer brands. Includes beer for dogs. Now aren't you happy you stopped by today.


See if you fight like a girl. 10 ultimate girl on girl punch-ups

7 disgusting flavours we never got a chance to love.

You know what? I'm glad I don't live in Japan. 10 bizarre Japanese soft-drinks. Seems to me, you could slip most of these into the last category.

Because you've been good....except for you GIGC- You've been very,very bad....here's today's bonus link. How to make a ping-pong gun capable of taking down enemies and killing small animals- especially that beer drinking dog.

I can't tell you how much fun we've had around the Mayor's office with these babies. Everyone loves them.....almost everyone....there is Old One-eyed Charlie. He doesn't care for them so much.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Today I got nothing

Or I guess it should be- I don't have anything? Either way you look at it it's still diddly squat, nada, zilch, zippo, bottom of the barrel, a big fat goose egg.......so how about a link of chicks fighting in Jell-o?

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The Trek for the Holy Grail

So what's the big release in the theatres this week? Evan Almighty? And what's next? Again with the Die Hard , The Simpson's Movie? Will it ever end? Will I ever stop asking asinine questions?

So many movies , so little Summer.

Once again, I present to you- Blockbusters that were considered for summer release, but sadly passed over.



OK, then click here and watch it. Shit! Some people's YouTube kids.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Fodder's Day

I’ve been a little remiss in my duties this week as far as keeping an ear out for all things freaky and weird. Hence, I have nothing in the way of news to Blog about.

Sure, there was talk of making public breast feeding the norm, which would destroy the sale of milk-based products in restaurants and grocery stores.

And alarming statistics were released concerning an increase in accidents when wearing stilettos while driving , but since my last accident I’ve moved to the more comfortable flip-flops.

I guess really, my mind has been preoccupied with Father’s Day and band rehearsals- which are going fine BTW- thanks for asking. Just check this out. We could probably start doing shows tomorrow and would probably still be playing now if the Ice Cream Truck hadn't showed up.



Thanks to the ubiquitous Bob Noxious for providing the video evidence. That was him in the red shorts coming on to stage right.

In all I’m not left with much of a blog this week. My sincerest apologies, or “you owe me one”- depending on which side of the Strange fence you sit.

However, I will leave you with this hopefully entertaining tidbit.....

Great moments in Pottahawk history

The first Pottahawk was no where near the great success it is today, happening purely by accident. It was the Roaring 20's when an errant beach goer dropped his pocket watch in the murky waters of Pottahawk. Many a considerate bystander agreed to help him find it in the waist-deep soup.


Yet, it wasn’t until later in the day when a young woman also lost her knickers that the excitement increased to a fevered pitch- a sexual feeding frenzy, that is to this day, unmatched in the celluloid annals of modern Adult Bukkake Cinema .

In later years the acts of wanton sex would give way to the less intrusive ritual of women showing off their breasts for the accumulation of dollar store beads, with all curbing their lust by ingesting alcohol in an on going reckless destruction of the liver.

Cross posted at Mitchieville

Saturday, June 16, 2007

SIS #31

the limits of respectability
chapter thirty-one - macaroni and mustard soup


Journal entry- Day 63- So it is, we are approaching the inescapable, the gig from hell none of us hoped to play. I guess you can only dodge the bullet of inevitability for so long? There hasn’t even been much in the way of scenery to look at as our trek nears the end- barren, sullen, downcast, much like our spirits. This is perhaps the end of the road in more ways than one, yet I feel, I, and maybe Wires and Doc, are the only ones who sense it completely. Everyone else either hangs to the slivers of hope, or wallows in the infertile mud of indifference.

The Ghost rumbled forward, seemingly hitting every pothole in sight. The trailer pitched and swayed behind us but continued to mimic the truck’s path without incident. The road had changed from pavement to dirt, twenty miles back. We would have taken another route except, there wasn’t one. This was the only road leading us to Flap Jack’s, and it ended there. We crossed a solitary layer of train tracks leading into Bugtussle. They had not been used for some time. There was a rusted switch and rails short of a few ties. It was overgrown, and submerged in places where the tracks had sunk into the ground much like the mining industry in these parts which had kept it alive. The rest of the miss-use and ill repair was hidden by clumps of snow. The only signs of life were the occasional zigzag patterns of some animal followed by the sliding tracks from a pursuing snowmobile. The climate had become much colder as we had snaked our way north again, to this much maligned destination. During the last eight hours, the truck’s heater had sputtered and quit forcing us now, to huddle together in a synergy of shivering.

“No money! No food! No heat! Damn that Murphy and his law,” Spike howled.

Wally inquired. “What’s the law of averages got to do with us?”

We all groaned.

“What can go wrong, will go wrong, Wally,” Doc corrected.

“I thought that was Newton, the guy who invented the fig bars?”

Again more groans.

Wally added. “What? You ever taste a fig bar? Not the greatest.” He still had no clue.

After a long silence Doc spoke. “He was a lefty you know?”

“Who?”

“Newton. He probably would have made a great pitcher in the major leagues with that south-paw?” Again there was a long silence. Again it was broken by Doc’s words. “Leonardo da Vinci, Mark Twain, Albert Einstein, Jack the Ripper, Ringo Starr . . . all lefties don’t ya know?”

Space sniped. “Are you trying to make a point, Barlow?”

“No. Just passing the time. Keeping my mind off the fact we’re all slowly freezing to death and the real questions springing to mind?”

“Like ?. . .”

“Are we even going to be able to play when we get there?”

“I’m sure they have electricity Doc.”

“I’m not questioning whether they have electrical power Space. But surely the hamsters running the treadmills to generate it, couldn’t possibly survive in these temperatures? Je-Je- Je-Je-sus I’m barely surviving.” It was the most Doc had said to Space in a week.

“Let’s just get there. Get warm. Do the gig and get out. Ok?” Space riposted through
chattering or clenched teeth. I couldn’t decipher which.

“What? You think Walden’s going to miraculously give us a string of dates after this one?” I said, annoyed with the cold, annoyed with Space, annoyed with my underwear now creeping up between my butt and somehow seemed embedded there. “I think he’s abandoning us in this godforsaken hell-hole. Why else would he put us in Sleezyk’s club? He knows he’s the agent we screwed over to go with him. Surely Sleezyk knows who’s performing in his club this week.”

“You don’t know for sure Sparky.”

“...and you don’t know for sure he doesn’t, Space.”

Wires hadn’t said a word for the past hour. He hadn’t even smoked, or chewed tinfoil, a true testament to how pissed off he must actually be. It was the only vote of confidence I needed. He could sense it: the finality, the end. It was conclusive.

“Look guys we have to maintain a positive attitude. This is a minor set back, that’s all. It’s a test, and Gary wants to see how we conduct ourselves under the circumstances.”

Doc mused. “What circumstances? See if we can still perform after we’ve frozen to
death?”

Space took no notice of him and continued. “It’s the only way we’re going to get back into his good graces.” Feeble words from our drummer who, just a week ago, was expressing a strong desire to hang em’ up himself. He’d been ready to desert us all here, a good two days drive from home. Perhaps he was talking to save his own ass with Walden?

Spike was quick with a response. “Dream on Space.”

“As long as you have money, I guess it’s easier to see the bright side. But look around fearless leader. Everyone here is not exactly going to be eating much this week. We certainly can’t dine on positive attitude.” What Doc said was true, the last two weeks had left us drained financially and emotionally. All the remaining money had been used on gas to get us to Bugtussle. Beyond it, we were in deep doo-doo.

Space pleaded. “Can we not, do this now?” He must have felt he was losing control fast. The real truth however, was he’d lost control long before this moment. It had just not been evident to him.

Wires brought the Ghost to the edge of town. In appearance it reminded me of Nasty Tree, only smaller in scale. Regardless, it wasn’t a comforting thought. This town had an antiquated and rugged exterior, kind-of-like Glib had been to Wally. We could probably use someone like Glib on this outing to translate Back-woods-ease. It’s not like there were successful real-estate agents moving people to Bugtussle in droves. Space should have made him road-manager. Only to suggest such a scenario now, would be deemed as a low-blow bordering on heresy, especially after Doc’s money comments.

“That must be the place up ahead?”

“What, the place that says, ‘Flap Jack’s,’ Wally? Whatever led you to such an astute conclusion? Maybe we’re playing at the other Flap Jack’s across town?”

A gray structure of brick and wood loomed before us, as if its builders could not decide between the two construction materials. The wooden marquee, with the painted red letters of its namesake, angled out from the roof. It was secured at either end by rickety, triangles of 2 x 4's, and a cord of yellow rope running from the center of the board to a metal post in the middle of the roof. I was sure, a good gust of wind was the only thing necessary to blow it clear off the shack and onto the main street below as it would lazily shift to-and-fro with a sudden icy blow from the elements.

We pulled around to the back, down a narrow alley, and parked by the loading dock
where two loose doors rattled in the wind. I pulled my scarf up tight around my neck and zipped my coat up even higher than it had been. Out we stepped from the frosty interior of our vehicle into the relentless cold and a blustery west chill. We were greeted by Bronson who had gone in through the front to open up our entrance way. The doors unfolded directly onto the stage.

This is just great! I thought. Now we can perform and die of hypothermia at the same time. How convenient.

We loaded in as quickly as humanly possible, partly due to the sub-zero temperatures outside, and partly to appease the screaming insults of the afternoon barflies. “Close that god dang DOOR!”

“What do these people do for entertainment when they can’t yell at city folk?” Doc
mumbled at the entourage of locals decked out in the indigenous uniform of checkered flannel underneath parkas decorated with the fur of various dead animals.

Music for me had always been about peeks and valleys. The small victories had always been the glue holding me together through the harsh realities of a cutthroat business. This tour, at times, had been a peek, but it had come screaming downhill, on one ski, into a valley very unexpectedly and the valley was filled, seemingly, with drunken yahoos. And these Yahoos who would sooner see us dead than have there Monday darts interrupted.

We set up and opted to collect our room keys in place of doing an adequate sound-check to further enrage the natives from their ritual of exchanging wompum for firewater. Once again I was rooming with Wally and Doc— the cold comfort of an old episodic TV show where the ending finds you back at the start. I felt perhaps Rod Serling was going to step out from stage right at any moment, to explain it all. “For your consideration. A man has reached his breaking point. His vicious circle, in a sinking swamp of his own madness. Treading water in the Twilight Zone.” Even the rooms looked strangely familiar, through the maze of filth, as our trio stood by the open doorway surveying the damage. It was the usual dull, drab, crusty surroundings of fist holes in the walls and a light fixture hanging from a wire in the middle of the ceiling. In a corner, a wooden, three-legged chair was leaning on a knife-etched desk for support. Two single beds, sat near a cot guarding a night table with a phone with its cord unceremoniously ripped from the wall. A cracked window covered by a layer of plastic made a farting sound with each gust of wind, as the cold from outside still seeped into our domain.

Doc listened to the plastic flatulence. “Well at least Wally will feel at home.”
“Six glorious days in squaller,” I stated. “Guess I should have payed more attention to the travel brochure?”

Wally spoke with a touch of melancholy. “Well it was nice while it lasted. Where’s the bathroom?”

“I think it’s down the hall, Wally?”

Wally’s eyes bugged out in disgust. “We have to share it?”

“I believe everyone else should be worried about the prospect of sharing a toilet with you Wally. Not the other way around.”

“At least they don’t frown on the bands writing on the walls here,” I said, looking at the various graffiti.

“It should be mandatory in a place like this, Sparky. Like notching the passing days on a prison cell wall.”

I began to read some of the statements and view some of the artwork from the bands
who had come and gone. Some, I had never heard of, some I knew of, but were no more. They were morose whispers from the past long since disbanded. There were drawings, (of the female anatomy mostly), and declarations of, “Bugtussle sucks!” and, “Sleezyk’s a fag!” Even without the palisade literature, we were very aware we’d be in tough for the week.

“Well, there’s no mistaking this is one of Sleezyk’s bars, is there? God! You awake from the dream to find yourself back in the nightmare.”

“But what happens when we wake from the nightmare, Sparky?”

“I guess either way, we shouldn’t expect a mint on the pillow.”

“After what it says on these walls, I think we should be glad we don’t have defecate on our pillows,” Doc said, bringing notice to the stained yellow pillow cases and sheets. The blankets actually made a crunching sound as we pulled them back. I half expected to see cockroaches scattering for the corners and the unmistakable hammering from Spike’s room as he chased them down with his trusty mallet. Either way, I felt I’d probably have a sounder sleep at ground zero on a bed of cinder blocks, in a septic tank of waste.

“What you got left in the food trunk?”

“Not much, Wally. Some pasta, a few condiments, a quarter jar of peanut butter....Things were going so well, I never replenished it. I thought . . . you know . . . with Walden in the picture— ”

“We all thought, Sparky,” Doc concluded. “But he’s an agent. What were you expecting?”

“I mean the reason I have the trunk is for emergencies such as this, and now look at me. Old Mother Hubbard had more. Christ!”

“At least we get free coffee and soda in the bar.”

“Great Wally, We’ll just drink all week until we’re full. I mean Je-sus just look at Sparky. He’s lost so much weight he’s almost thin.”

I took a glance in the cracked mirror above the dresser. It felt as if I was staring at my reflection in a fun house distorting my true image, giving me the appearance of being svelte bordering on gaunt. Doc was right. I had lost a considerable amount of weight. If only Badd Kredytz could see me now through their busted-up faces.

“I’d heard horror stories from other bands about this place, but it’s much more depressing when you’re actually here. What the fuck are we doing here? Megan’s gone now, doesn’t Walden know?”

Doc scolded. “You don’t get it do you, Wally? It’s over. The ride is over and so is the tour. Even if we do come back out this way again, it can never be as Bitter Romance.”

“Space will think of something. Walden will have a gig for us. You’ll see.”

“I think we’ve given Space and Walden too much rope as it is. Nothing left to do but hang them both with it.” Doc grabbed the hot plate out of his bag, slammed it on the desk and plugged it in. He snagged a pot from my food trunk. “I’m going to go get some water and we’ll cook up the last of Sparky’s pasta.”

“The sink, not the toilet,” I reminded, as I continued to admire my new physique.

“Hey, do you think I’m Wally?”

Wally smiled. “One day Doc . . . I’m going to think of a really good comeback and you’ll be sorry.” He sat down on the edge of the cot and appeared unscathed by Doc’s comment. I guess by this time he was used to the ridicule. The cot suddenly collapsed under his weight leaving him prone on the floor. “Ow! My ass,” he said. I helped him to his feet as he rubbed it gingerly. “Everything’s falling apart, Sparky.”

“I know, Wally. What I don’t understand is how you appear to be gaining weight while
everyone else is losing it.”

“Just wait until the end of the week Sparky.”

Doc returned with a full pot and set it to boil. He shook his head at Wally trying to repair the broken cot. I poured the last of the macaroni into the water and Doc and I went down stairs to get something for us to drink while Wally stayed behind to watch over our food. When we returned, we were horrified to find Wally had dumped the last of the mustard into the pot and the macaroni now bubbled away in a rolling yellow liquid. Wally seemed quite pleased and exclaimed triumphantly. “I fixed my cot guys.” He had turned a chair onto its side and propped up the broken end of the bed with it. It was now on a slight angle but usable. Doc wasn’t concerned with Wally’s sleeping arrangement. He gazed into the pot of ruined pasta.

“What the fuck did you do that for, Wally? Je-sus, Mary and jumpin’ Ja-hosa-phat! My mother’s cat’s got more sense.”

“I was just adding some flavor to the macaroni.”

“You’re supposed to wait until it’s cooked you fool! Now look at it, it’s soup. Macaroni and mustard soup. Shit! I thought Glib said you were ‘the smart one’?”

“Don’t worry I’ll eat it.”

“Oh yeah! And what do Sparky and I eat Wally? Your good intentions? The sheets? They look appetizing enough but I thought I’d leave them for dessert.”

I looked into the near emptiness of the food trunk and plucked out the last of the peanut butter. “Looks like we’ll have to settle for the last thing on the menu, Doc. You’ll have to find something to eat with. All I have left is one plastic butter knife.” Doc looked around the room and dug through his bag as hunger started to take a foot hold. He emerged from the depths of his suitcase with a comb.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I said.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know where the playing cards are. I’ve got no choice.”

“Then you have to wait til I’m finished. You can use your fingers for all I care.” I started into the jar, digging my knife in, scraping bottom. When I felt I had eaten my half, I handed the remainder to Doc. Wally sat with a bowl in hand, alternately blowing on his soup to cool it down and slurping the mustard and macaroni right from the dish. Doc dug his grooming instrument into the thickness and I savored the last of my dinner from my plastic knife. There was a knock at the door. It was Wires.
My tongue fought to remove peanut butter from my palette. “Iz oben,” I yelled. The door swung inward and Wires entered. He almost laughed at the ridiculous sight of Doc and I eating, a jar of smooth peanut butter sitting on the bed between us, and Wally, standing next to the cot drinking his soup. He glanced at the chair under the cot and into the cyan, colored, lumpy, liquid in the pot and smiled. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. “Wally’s been busy again has he?”

“Why Wires, what gave you that idea?”

“Ahhh, Doc, always answering a question with a question,” Wires said. He grinned
weakly and popped a white stick of tobacco into his mouth. “You guys hard up, or what?”

“For food? Does it look like it?”

“I meant for utensils,” Wires said, as Doc dug his comb back into the jar. “I’ll bet it works better on your hair than gel.”

“...and I’ll bet you get some funny drawings from this scenario,” I added.

Doc huffed as he licked his comb. “Well I don’t want to see them when they’re done.”

“Actually, I’m here to tell you we don’t have to play until later tonight. Something about Monday Night Football and they don’t want us to block the big screen.”

“The one hanging behind us on stage?”

“No Wally, the one behind the bartender. Jesus! You’re so observant,” Doc cursed. “Must be all the yellow brain food you eat?”

“I said I was sorry, Doc. Geesh!”

“So we have most of the night off?” I said.

Wires nodded affirmatively.

“Great! Sparky and I can go back to our original plans of watching the paint peel and our bodies waste away.”

“Any word on next week?”

Wires looked suddenly pallid and haggard. “Not yet, Wally, and I’m not holding my breath gentlemen. I’ll leave you to your meal. Enjoy.” Wires turned and closed the door behind him, cutting a lingering ribbon of smoke in two. Doc returned to the jar, I sucked the knife clean and Wally continued to eat the macaroni and mustard soup, every last bit of it.

By the time we hit the stage it was a quarter past twelve and most of the bar had cleared out. It was an absolutely horrible set. The doors behind us clattered and clanged in the wind throwing Space off time several points during the set. It also dislodging the parachute which knocked over some of the flood lamps. The temperature on stage was freezing, forcing us to play with coats on, and in Wally’s case, mittens. The instruments constantly went out of tune as the heat from the lights slowly changed the temperature around us from life threatening to less than bearable. In all, we sounded like some hack garage band— a far cry from the well rehearsed, oiled machine we had strived to be. By the end of the night, dejected, Doc, Wally and I, sat with Wires and Bronson watching the only working TV in any of the rooms. It just happened to be in theirs. Wires sat at the desk next to the TV drawing and occasionally watching the movie between puffs. Bronson sat at the foot of his bed with his legs folded and I had my back to the bed-board, hugging a pillow with brownish stains, for warmth. Doc lay on the bed with his feet stretched out, his parka still on and the hood up. His red leg-warmers and the bottom of the white doctors coat he wore on stage were the only evidence it was actually him.

“What a god-awful night,” I lamented, as Steve McQueen hopped aboard a motorcycle in The Great Escape.

Wally sat on the floor with a mug of cocoa he’d snagged from the kitchen downstairs and cupped it lovingly. He still had on his homemade mittens. “I’m so hungry.”

The parka spoke. “Should have saved some soup for later then. Don’t worry, Wally, the human body can go three weeks without food before you die of hunger. You only have to go five more days.”

“Three weeks? I can’t go three hours. Where did you read that?”

“It’s the standard rule of three, Wally. Three weeks without food, three days without
water, three minutes without air.”

“Really?” Wally took a deep breath and held it.

“What about sex, Doc? Is that in there?”

“Why, Sparky? You planning to be celibate from here on in?” Bronson laughed.

Wires smiled as he drew in his sketch pad and Wally continued to hold his breath. On the screen Steve was jumping fences on his bike as he tried to outrun the Germans.

“This really sucks ass. I think I’m going to die of boredom before the hunger gets me. There’s only so much time you can spend in the general store looking at chainsaws and mining tools. You know what I mean?”

“I hear ya, Sparky.”

The television started to go fuzzy. Without taking his eye off his drawing, Wires reached over and banged the top of the console with his fist. The picture cleared. There was Steve again, weaving back and forth as the enemy closed in. Wally’s face was slowly changing color as his cheeks puffed out and he began to shake slightly.

Doc praised. “Wires, he can fix anything.”

I continued my rant. “By the end of the week my stomach will have shrunk so much I
probably won’t be able to keep down ice-cream.”

Doc added. “Just as well, Sparky, Wally would only put mustard all over it. “Wally shot Doc an angry purple look and gave him the finger for good measure. “Good comeback. I love you too, Wally.”

Steve made one more desperate attempt to jump the last fence. He slid his motorcycle into the barbed-wire and wiped out. The Germans were on him. He was captured once again.

There was a thud, as Wally, still trying to hold his breath passed out, mittens and all. Doc without missing a beat said, “Three minutes! It’s supposed to be three minutes, Wally.”

“At least he didn’t have so far to fall this time,” I said.

Wires looked thoughtfully at Wally laying peacefully with his little chocolate mustache of cocoa. He turned the page of his sketch pad and began to draw a new picture.

Friday, June 15, 2007

New release this week

The perfect new release for Father's Day? How about: My Pussy Belongs To Daddy?

What I really want for Father's Day

Besides the above album that is. First, let's get a few things straight. DO NOT get me another tie, BBQ set, belt, wallet, pair of socks, more underwear (the ones with the holes in them suit me fine), sweater,(this is summer for Christ's sake), shirt, (even if you do think pink is my colour), or lame ass book unless it has pictures of naked women and the title includes words like "bukkake MILF orgy".

Last year I was all excited when I got one titled, "Driving the Skin Bus into Tuna Town".....until I found out it was a children's book.

Now I know most of you can't afford the Porsche, The wall-sized LCD, or the modelesque sex chick for GIGC and myself, but here are a few other gadgets to ponder that I would accept graciously.

Super Realistic Missile Balloons



Man people would so get out of my way on the road if I had these babies chasing me. Just imagine, you'd never have to worry about traffic again.


Pee Goal
You know I can't tell you how many times I've uttered the phrase,
"piss on soccer!" Now here's my chance and I can keep score in the process.

Hidden Beer Belly Storage Pack

Since I already have a gut, people won't question where all the weight came from.


Remote Controlled Lawn Mower

I don't like cutting the grass as it is, but a device like this would make the process much easier. Plus, I could chase down that annoying mutt from next door that keeps pissing on my paper.

>
Poop Odor Eliminator Pills

Really says it all don't ya think?









Complete Cock Care Kit

Man! The number of times I've turned down sex because I haven't trimmed my Johnson. Sometimes I've been hard pressed to find the damn thing in that jungle of hair. Well, no more.


Gentleman's Silver Ball Scratcher

This goes hand in hand with the last gift...*hint*....in case you have a little money left over. After all I'll need something to scratch with when the hair starts to grow back in.




Automatic Finger Flicking Lighter


Not only does this hand lighter emit a green flame it also utters the phrase "Fuck you!" twice. This and the missile balloons and there's no stopping me.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Double shot

I was just over at Mitchieville looking at Reg's post about US spelling bee champ Kevin O’Dorney and I'm thinking to myself, there's some other words this kid will have to spell frequently in his lifetime: L-O-N-E-R, F-R-E-A-K, T-E-R-R-O-R-I-S-T, R-A-P-I-S-T, M-U-R-D-E-R-E-R, I-N-C-A-R-C-E-R-A-T-I-O-N....Just to name a few.

Anyhoo, it's come to this. My final "They sure didn't make toys like that when I was a kid" post. And for you, just for you....that's right I'm pointing at you right now and know one else, Timmy, Susan, Mayor, GIGC, Reg, Jeff, Mohammad, Anonymous blogger link guy/girl.

Let's get on with it.





Personally, I'd skip the "Flesh Drink" (Damn Japanese!) and go for Garfield. Now that I think of it, I'm deeply saddened I didn't have a toy like that when I was a kid.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

BOOGIE WARS

Seems every week there is a new blockbuster movie release in theatres; Pirates, Shrek, Spiderguy, Oceans 92....I could go on and on, but I thought maybe you'd like to see some of the big movie releases they had to pass over for the summer to fit the others in? There's only so many weekends.

Monday, June 11, 2007

33 days and counting

If someone pees in the water at Pottahawk and no one is there to see, does the water still turn a brownish, greenie-yellow?



As you can tell by the size of my CN Tower-sized manhood, I'm pretty excited about this year's "best day ever". In the coming days I will be posting some great moments in Pottahawk history for your enjoyment. Of course there will be pictures of this year sure to have 20% more frolic, and a return of a crowd favorite, "Where's Johnny Wad?"

Starting the week by the numbers

With Bob "neuter em" Barker leaving the price is right I thought it would be fun to look at the Top 10 greatest gameshow hosts of all-time.

The Top 20 sports meltdowns caught on tape.

Top 10 animal attack videos. So it's pretty much the same as the last link except there's only 10.

The 7 best condom commercials. I guess that's probably all of them?

The answer is about 2500.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

SIS# 30

the limits of respectability
chapter thirty - the short and curlies



Space scampered back to the truck and dived inside trying to hide. The rest of us stood frozen in the grip of those headlights- hopeless dear at the end of life's road. Wires continued, in a useless attempt to pump gas. The transport was not slowing down.

Doc screamed. “He’s going to ram us! What? Is that she-devil behind the wheel !?” Everyone was now yelling in the final grip of a fear and madness cocktail. The static of voices overtaking all else in a jet-engine roar of panic. The rushing pulse of blood gone cold. Hearts galloping into throats. Flesh creeping right off bone. However, the transport did not hit us. It whooshed on by, on its way to some other terminus. There was a collective sigh of relief.

The Old Feller had returned. “Wha-tin tarnation’s all the hub-bub? Heard y’all caterwauling.” There was a sudden clink of his key ring hitting the ground. Doc without turning around said, “Sparky, please tell me he still has his pajama bottoms on.”

I turned to witness the Old Feller fumbling with his key ring. His rope and his P.J.s, all at his ankles. “You know Doc, I’d really wish I could tell you yes.”

The Old Feller pulled all his belongings back up to his waist, and shuffled up to Wires, “Here, let me do er yung fella.”

“That’s all right, I’m done.” Wires returned the nozzle to the pump and snapped the cap back on the Ghost. “I thought I’d help you get back to bed. You’ve been a great help sir. — Space we need money for gas!”

Space extended an arm out the door. I almost expected to see a white flag tied to the end of it. His trembling hand held two twenties but the rest of him remained hidden inside. Bronson grabbed the cash and handed it to the man. The Old Feller took the money, thanked us for the business and slowly made his way back to shut the pumps off. Relieved, but mindful we couldn’t dawdle, we quickly boarded the Ghost and drove off with Wires at the wheel. Our angry combatant was still out there somewhere in the night, and the next time might not be a false alarm.

***

“It’s funny, Wires, how things seem so horrific when they happen. Yet, give it some time, and they’re funny as hell. Here we are so many years removed from those days and I find myself laughing about it. I certainly wasn’t doing it at the time.”

Wires butted another cigarette out into a half of a grapefruit as we continued to reminisce in the lavish milieus of the hotel suite. “I think,” he said, “It was Woody Allen who mused, ‘Tragedy, plus time, equals comedy.’ Do you know how many drawings I did concerning those events Sparky? I could fill volumes of books. What happened to Bitter Romance was gold in a comedic sense.”

“You know, Wires, all I did was bitch and moan about everything back then.”

“You and everyone else, Sparky. It eventually cost Space all his hair ya know.”

“But, talking about it now, It was pretty cool, and If I could go back, I’d probably do it all again...well, without Megan, but mostly the same. It’s like your first sexual experience, It sucked at the time because you didn’t know quite what you were doing...."

"Maybe yours did?"

-" And you fought to keep an erection. Damn, you wondered if it was even in there, for Christ’s sake. Yet, you want to get back in the trenches- so-to-speak- and give it another shot, because you knew it would get better.”

“Playing music and touring, it’s not like that. It’s not an exact in-and-out science Sparky. It’s a fine balancing act, like adding the right amount of milk to cereal. You always have too much of one, or the other. It rarely comes out equal.”

“I’d still do it all over again Wires. Even knowing what I know now.”

“You telling me, you miss being hungry; You miss being destitute; You miss being cold?”

“I wasn’t cold. I was freezing.”

“I remember it well, Sparky. I was there too.” Obviously Wires was referring to what we all ended up calling, the gig from hell. The gig where everything snapped, and the last threads we hung from became frayed and worn.

***

Relaxed in the safety of our destination I decided to make a quick collect call to Lorraine.

She was adamant. “Johnny, we have to move.”

“Move? Why? What’s wrong now, more ants in the kitchen? You spent the rent money I sent you? More religious voodoo with our Jewish landlords?— ”

“— No John, listen. The laundry room, I’m not supposed to use it remember?”

“Yeah so?”

“I got tired of going to the laundry mat. It’s too cold to walk there now.”

“You used their laundry room didn’t you? You know better. They were very clear about it when we moved in. No laundry facilities!”

“I thought I could get away with it.”

-“What did you do?”

-“I didn’t want them to know . . .”

-“What did you do?!”

“When they went up stairs between loads, I glued the lock on the laundry room door.”

-“You did what?”

“I figured it would keep the lock from catching and I could use it without them knowing, when they went out. Except . . . except . . . ” Lorraine began to cry. “They closed the door and now they can’t get it open. It’s glued shut. They know it’s me. They’re very angry. We have to move. I can’t stay here anymore.” Her whimpering continued unabated. I held my breath and counted to ten, then gently let it out. “Johnny are you there?” Any ability to comfort her was now erased, tabula rasa, like car wipers expunging the rain. I felt nothing. “Johnny? Hello.”

“Uh huh.”

“What should I do?”

“So move!” I said. “Just let me know where to.” Lorraine was the type of girl who would find a new place, not think to tell me, and wonder why I didn’t come home once the tour ended.

She mumbled weakly through her sniffles.“I’ll need money for first and last.”

“It’ll take a couple of months for me to come up with it. I can’t send any more than what I’m sending now.” Under the circumstances, I wasn’t about to tell Lorraine of what had transpired and she would be lucky to get any money at all. It would only complicate matters and I was angered enough by her stupidity— and mine. Besides, I was convinced two weeks from now, this situation would all blow over and we’d be staying put, mainly because I really had no intention of sending her first and last months rent.

We talked for a while longer, mostly about problems she was experiencing on her end, until we said our goodbyes. As far as she was concerned, my time on the road had been uneventful. “All fun and games,” she had said. She had no knowledge of anything occurring over the last four weeks, including our gun toting groupie and nearly being trampled by a heard of elk. “Must be nice to sleep all day,” She had said.

“Isn’t that what you do?” I barked back, noting her ability to keep a job, any job, was in question. It was always someone else’s fault she got fired. Always someone else who stole the money and blamed her. I had become fatigued by the whole process. I hung up and took another deep breath.

We’d been at Wally’s brother’s for two days. He lived on a farm surrounded by rickety old oaks and corn fields, long since dormant in the early clutches of winter. The house was old, with floor boards creaking and moaning. However, it was homey enough, and provided adequate shelter for the entire band. We could wait there for word on where we’d be heading to next and it was a welcome comfort to our stress in exile.

Wally’s brother’s name was Gil, but Wally called him Glib, a testament to his smooth- talking, slick ways with the ladies. Wally had said. “Glib was a lover of the triple F: fishing, farting, and fucking.”

Doc had responded. “As long as he doesn’t visit me in the middle of the night and ask me to, 'squeal like a pig', we’ll get along famously.”

They were cut from the same mold those two, right down to the uniformed stature, bronze skin, salacious smile, and wavy golden mullet. Glib was more raw and rugged, than Wally- if that was possible?— a diamond uncut, two branches up from the family tree of mountain men. He was single, (the seven cats and two dogs didn’t count. It was an easy enough observation to make, from the dirty dishes in an overflowing sink and the carton of milk flowing in globs of spoiled sourness. However, Wally did warn him not to be too coy with Casey. The band had suffered enough physical confrontation and needed a break from further retribution.

“Thanks for putting us up on such short notice,” was the general consensus. We were happy to have a mattress for a bed instead of cocooned in a sleeping bag atop bass bins and a plethora of steel cases.

“Good to have cumpny,” Glib had said. “I get tired talkin’ to the damn dogs. They’re always barkin, but got nothin to say.”

Journal entry- Day 62- I have talked with Space and he has assured me he has decided to keep the band running, now Megan is gone. But– We’re becoming concerned. We haven’t heard from Walden about our next job and time is running out for this week. Glib says he has a friend who owns a roadhouse ten miles down the highway next to a general store. He feels confident he could get us in there to play Friday and Saturday in a pinch. I don’t know which frightens me more, having no gigs to go to, or doing the one for Glib’s friend?

With the end of the week in sight we agreed to perform at Glib’s friend’s bar. It was a small place called Cowboy Town, with an even smaller stage. We could only fit the drums onto it and had to take out four tables to accommodate the other instruments and amplifiers.

“Doc, I think we’re going to need some chicken-wire in front of the band for this one.”

“Aww you guys’ll do fine,” Glib said. “Besides, there’s the Blueberry Festival going on in town, probably won’t be anyone here anyways.”

Doc wondered aloud.“Blueberries at this time of the year?”

“Great!” I responded. “Memories of Nasty Tree’s Pumpkin Festival.”

“That’s comforting,” Doc chirped. “We always look forward to playing to empty houses.”

“Say, do you guys know any country?”

“Just the one we live in,” Doc dead panned.

We set up and did a short sound check, (not as short as the two half attempts at The Romantics, we’d performed in the last check, but pretty short). By the time we went on, a few stragglers had wandered in and sat at a couple of tables, more out of curiosity than anything else. After all, there was always the Blueberry Festival as an alternative, if we sucked.

Doc moaned. “Oh this is just great! How did I let myself get talked into this?”

“It’s a gig like any other Barlow.”

“At least I know your not stealing money from us this time Space, because we aren’t making any.”

“Fuck off Doc! We have bigger problems right now like Monday’s coming and we have no place to go and no money to get there. At first I thought Walden was making us sweat for a few days to teach us a lesson. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Maybe Wally can talk to Glib about making us the house-band here?”

“That’s enough out of you Barlow.”

Spike interrupted. “Hey, let’s just get this over with, all right!”

Wally spoke more to himself than anyone else. “Seems like we’re doing a lot of that on this tour.”

“By the looks of the crowd I’d put your Chub competition on hold for now boys,” I said, peering out into the bar.

“Yeah,” Doc added. “How many teeth can someone have who expects us to play Johnny Cash and Box Car Willie all night?”

Somehow we got through our performance unscathed. Doc was on fire handling all the MC’s and lying through his teeth. He pulled out all the stops and our audience ate it up. “Here’s a song Ricky Skaggs wrote with his brother Boz called Twilight Zone. This is an old Willie Nelson number called Girls on Film. We’ll be back next set with some Slim Whitman, and Hank Williams Jr.. This is a song written by Waylen Jennings, for Men Without Hats called, Safety Dance.” One guy at a front table actually nodded up and down like he had the Jennings’ version somewhere in his vinyl collection. As improbable as it seemed, we got an encore, if you can believe it? By that time, Doc was making up artists. “This is a song by Clevis Vince Gill III called White Wedding.”

We ended the night quite pleased with ourselves. “That was a masterful display Doc,” I praised after the show.

“Whatever gets you through the night. A great song in its own right by that good ol’ boy Elton Johnny Cash Lennon,” Doc smiled.

Space was standing next to us with one hand over his ear and the other pressing a phone tightly to his head. “Do you mind? I have to call Gary.”

“All right call your precious Gary. Shit why don’t you two just suck each other’s dicks and get it over with?”

“Barlow! He’s the guy who is going to get you out of this shit hole. Show some respect. If not to me, then to him. You fuckin’ ingrate.”

By Saturday there had still been no word from Walden and we were getting antsy. Looking over our shoulder for Megan to magically appear had been bad enough, but to not know where we were traveling next, was even worse. We were in the process of ripping down when Space came into the bar and started to dismantle his drums. He looked like he had something to say but was reluctant to spit it out.

“So great leader, what does the mighty Walden command?” Doc awaited an answer.

“Gary said he has to network through another agent for a while, before he can put us back into his clubs with confidence. But he has booked us for next week.”

Wally sighed, “Thank God! — Glib snores.”

“So do you Wally,” Spike insisted.

“Yeah, but when I do, I’m asleep and don’t have to listen to it.”

“So what’s the good word Space? Where are we off to?” I said.

“Hmm . . . It’s just that . . . it’s a good news, bad news thing guys.”

“...and?” Spike pushed.

“The good news, we are working six nights next week.”

“I don’t like the sounds of this,” I said. Wires stood emotionless beside me as if he already knew the words Space would speak.

“What’s the bad news?....What’s the bad news Space!” Doc repeated, his anger starting to push its way into a spring of fury.

“The bad news, it’s six nights at Flap Jack’s in Bugtussle.”

“Flap Jack’s! You have to be kidding. No! That’s Sleezyk’s club!”

Wally shook his head. “Ohhh, this is where I got on in this nightmare. That place is a dump and I use dump in the kindest possible way.”

“Gee Space. I’m so glad we have Walden to get us out of this shit hole. My respect has been rewarded.”

“It’s Flap Jack’s or nothing at all, Doc.”

Wally moaned. “Oh....It’s over.”

“Yup, Wally,” Doc informed. “The fat lady’s singing, except she went to the Blueberry Festival and that’s why you don’t hear her.”

Wires spoke. “It isn’t over yet, but it looks like we’re definitely down to the short and curlies on this tour.”

“You’re wrong Wires,” Spaced said. “Gary will come through.”

Wires said nothing more. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit a match. He propped a leg up against the wall and blew out a gust of smoke. He looked like he was waiting to catch a bus, while the rest of us were waiting for it to hit us.

Space reiterated, “Gary will come through....He has to.”

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Grease up your fist Big Bertha


Guess who's back
Back in jail
Paris’s back Looking pale
Guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back
guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back.

So the Judge won't let you be
or let you be free, so let me see
Nobody cares, how much you kick, cry , scream
Just like “The Simple Life” season three
So, get ready to dip, bum on your lips
Fuck that, cum on your lips, and some on your tits
And get ready, cause this shit's not about you Paris
You can’t turn to your Lawyer, Psychiatrist, Mom and Dad, Heiress
This is extortion, of biblical proportions
40 days and 40 nights with little meal portions?
How will I survive, in there they want me dead or alive?
Why, even these orange jumpsuits give me hives

(chorus)
Don’t matter how much you scream and yell
Like the guy outside court who raised some hell
Cause now you hear the tolling bell
You’re going back to that tiny cell
Don’t matter how much you scream and yell
Like the guy outside court who raised some hell
Cause now you hear the tolling bell
You’re going back to that tiny cell

I'd rather go down on my husband

Twenty percent of women would rather walk on hot coals, go to the dentist, or wear an orange jumpsuit, than wear a swimsuit. In fact, fifty percent of women have turned down invitations that required wearing a swimsuit, and 45 percent would never walk around the beach or pool without covering up first, according to the results of a body image survey published in the June 2007 issue of Fitness magazine.

Fitness, in partnership with Lands' End, polled 500 women, ages 18-49, to understand how women's behaviour, anxiety level, and self-confidence are affected when wearing a swimsuit. The results point to a discouraging trend of women so conscious about their shape and size that it affects the way they live and interact with friends, colleagues, and family.

Ladies let me put your worries to rest. Even if you have a little extra meat on the bone, or cottage cheese on the thighs, junk in the trunk as well as the back seat, or you are voluptuous, don’t worry. Men may think you’re fat but they’ll still fuck you anyway.

Hogzilla

The huge hog that became known as "Monster Pig" was killed by an 11-year-old boy.

Jamison Stone shot the huge hog during what he and his father described as a three-hour chase. They said it was more than 1,000 pounds and 9 feet long; if anything, it looked even bigger in a now-famous photo of the hunter and the hunted.



Either way you look at it, that's a lot of friggin' bacon. And I'm sure you wouldn't see it in a swimsuit either?

Thanks for the story Bug.

Jiminy cricket?

Apparently cricket is the worlds second most popular sport behind soccer. In Brampton however it now rules the roost where there are a shortage of pitches to play on.

Only a few years ago Brampton had only 12 cricket teams. The number has since swelled to 74 teams, surpassing hockey and baseball as the dominate sport in the area.

Brampton also leads the way in the permeating aroma of curry powder and the number of mattresses on lawns.

This shit could sell

The price of nitrogen-based fertilizer is soaring in the United States. In just a few months prices have jumped 50%. Most commercially available nitrogen-based fertilizer is originally derived from natural gas or methane, and natural gas prices have been rising steadily this year.

Also, Corn cultivation requires oodles of nitrogen, and the acreage of farmland devoted to corn in the U.S. this year has jumped dramatically. When the cost of production of a commodity and the demand for it rise at the same time, you've got trouble.

So now manufacturers, suppliers and users have turned to chicken shit, literally, to meet the demand. The poop in the coop has chickens working overtime and farmers banking on the industry.

Just let me know when you need my excrement? I’m already bagging it up and storing it in the shed just in case.

Maybe God should learn to dress snappier?

The days of hats, gloves and keeping covered up in your Sunday best must be long gone because there's a rash of brash dressing in Toronto -- and no doubt elsewhere across the country. Not surprising, given that "dressing up" for women often means a great pair of jeans, chic platforms and a glam top that flatters and camouflages any problem spots.

Church is the best place to meet chicks.....that and funerals.

A Toronto Pastor has issued two notices on 'Dressing for Church' in his Sunday bulletins, asking women to "dress in a 'modest' way -- a way that does not draw undue attention to your beauty or physique, so that you will not be upstaging God, who gave you these gifts."

Damn! God must be a real horndog, or at the very least a Sugar Daddy? You know GIGC thought I was a Sugar Daddy when she met me, but she soon found out I was just a low-cal saccharine man.

Strapless dresses, T-shirts and short skirts, oh my! How will people keep their eyes on their hymn books?

I don't know about that. Seems to me vivacious women would have me praying a lot more.....TO GET SOME! OH YEAH! I'm headed to the Corral tonight!

Cross posted at Mitchieville

Friday, June 08, 2007

New release this week

I recommend: Accordion De Paris.....Sorry, it's the closest thing I could find to represent the Hilton fiasco.