Friday, January 30, 2009

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

That pretty much sums it up

How much I hate this weather.

More fat dude trading cards

Tuesday, January 27, 2009


I'm a little pissed at the fact there will not be a wing eating contest this year at the Wing Shack during the Super Bowl.

I guess they couldn't find a ringer to take down our man One Ball Joe?

However, in his honor and in recognition for his past machine-like eating accomplishments I present to the first of a series: Fat dude trading cards.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Black humour for a blue Monday,

Man walks into his bedroom with a sheep under his arm. His wife is lying in bed reading.

Man says, "This is the pig I have sex with when you've got a headache."

Wife replies, "I think you'll find that is a sheep."

Man replies, "I think you'll find I was talking to the sheep."

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Hijacking Heaven - Chapter III

The knock on the door was faint at first, just enough to raise Billy Bradley from the depths of sleep. His short blond hair was just a tuft above the covers and his still-socked feet hung outside the blanket near the bottom of the bed. He slowly peeled back the sheets and opened one eye. Billy peered around the dimness of his room. There were all his familiar posters covering almost every inch of available wall space; Colorado Rockies baseball, Jeter and the Yankees, Roy still guarding the net for the Avalanche, several contemporary music heroes, pouting and posing with their hands held high in the air. Sign of the devil dude.

The rest of the holes were plugged with pages torn from Fangora magazines including several from the Saw series. Pictures of a more risqué nature were still hidden from sight- out of sight from his father- tucked beneath the mattress of his bed. On the floor his games were scattered next to a tangled ganglia of a controller module and an X-Box with an umbilical leading to a small television. Pages of drawings lay in a slow mass exodus from a computer desk in the corner as if they had been privy to a small explosion. Billy’s trophies for swimming, Little League and track, rose like gleaming golden spires, crowning the fortress of his dresser that coughed clothes from many an open drawer. The rest of his clothing lay scattered in the organized chaos of the bedroom decor.

Billy took great pride in his accomplishments in the sporting world and the dresser top seemed to be the only place in the room, immune from mess. He also didn’t mind one bit when his teammates bestowed the nickname “Rabbit”, on him due to his explosive speed. The coach of the Martin City Boulders, high school football team was already rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of Rabbit joining his team in a few years.

The rap came louder this time.

“Go away!” Billy shouted and pulled the covers over his head again. “I’m trying to sleep.”

The door opened with a creak. “It’s 12:30 Rabbit. Come on, get up!” came the familiar voice of his friend Jeffery Squire. “You can’t sleep all summer. School starts in a couple more weeks. You’re wasting precious summer juice.”

Rabbit again lowered the covers to see Jeffery’s disembodied, freckled face hover between the door and the frame. Even his mop of reddish hair couldn’t hide his playful disposition. His cheeks were alive with a fiery glow and as always, he seemed slightly out of breath.

“I said I’m trying to sleep!” Rabbit said, as he tossed a jock-strap in Jeffery’s direction. It had been lying dormant on the pillow next to him until needed as weaponry. It missed the mark.

“Gross!” Jeffery said, but he’d been thankful it hadn’t been the chess pieces Rabbit threw at him last week. Queen to Jeffery’s head. Checkmate!

“Who let you in?”

“Who do you think?...Your Dad. Actually I think his words were, ‘thank God you’re here Jeffery get my Son’s lazy ass out of bed will ya’.” Jeffery tried hard to do his best grown-up voice, but like the jock-strap, he too missed the mark.

Rabbit chuckled. “He didn’t say that to you.”

“Not in those words. No, but-”

“-Jeffery, It’s raining I want to sleep.”

“It was raining, but now it’s not. Besides, Old Man Vilgrain left his Backhoe out again. This time it’s by the road. Let’s go play on it.”

Billy had to admit, the offer was enticing. Old Man Vilgrain lived on the acreage at the end of the lane on the other side of the Madison’s. He’d had a landscaping company up until his wife left him and then he’d been lost to the bottle sitting for hours in his house with nothing but the TV flashing like far off lightning. Some nights, when the liquor had taken control, he`d drive drunk in his Backhoe across the fields ripping through his wife’s former gardens. He could be seen in the wee hours of the morning, cursing and howling in his usual dirty undershirt, his balding cranium snapping back and forth as he ploughed over yet another row of imaginary bushes. Man, if he left the Backhoe out on the fringe near the lane he must have really tied one on last night. He’d most definitely still be punching Z’s. There’s no way we'd be caught this time.

Jeffery and Rabbit were forever trespassing and causing the man grief. There was always a certain thrill of tempting fate and the buckshot, as well as the satisfaction of pulling pranks and getting away with it. Rabbit, besides his athletic prowess, had a knack for sensing when it was time to pull out and they always seemed to elude trouble....except for the last time.

It had been dusk and Old Man Vilgrain had started his routine of cracking open the Jack Daniels in front of the tube. The boys could see the flickering of light from within as if Vilgrain were a master-welder, building some artistic monstasity. Carefully they had crept up to the man’s front porch and around to the side door. The mission for the night was to sneak in, raid Vilgrain’s fridge, maybe some booze and let the man think he was going out of his freakin’ mind. They had a hiding place just beyond the tree line where they had, what they called, their safe house. It was just a small gully under a tree up-rooted by a storm that they had fortified with leaves and branches, but it sufficed when the situation got too hot. As a back-up, Rabbit had brought a cherry-bomb he felt would provide sufficient cover while they made their getaway in a cloud of smoke.

Everything had gone according to plan. Vilgrain’s side door was always unlocked and the boys crept in without a sound. They heard him in the other room watching some sort of reality show and periodically yelling slut and other obscenities at the television.

It was hard to contain their snickering and their nervousness. As usual Rabbit took the point position in their prank campaign, crawling on all fours- commando-style, and slowly opened the fridge door. He began passing food to Jeffery who stowed it in the burlap sack they had brought with them. The boys worked quickly to accomplish their task of, what they thought, the ultimate practical joke.

Jeffery whispered, “Holy, Rabbit, we’ve got a lot of stuff. Let’s go.”

“Just a few more things, “Rabbit said, as he laid his hands on a couple of bottles of beer and a jar of pickles. He passed the beer to Jeffery and rolled the pickles. Jeffery wasn’t expecting the rapid pass and the jar rolled by him and smacked into the stove with a clang, but remained unbroken.

The boys paused, breathless and frozen, gazing wild-eyed at one another, but heard no stirring from Vilgrain in the other room. They waited, but still nothing. The blaring volume continued with the occasional grumbling remark from the man.

Rabbit let a sigh of relief escape his lips. “That was close. Let’s get...”

The fridge door slammed shut. Old Man Vilgrain towered above them both, a shotgun in his hands. “What the fuck are you doing?!!”

Collectively the boys screamed and scampered out the side door leaving their food booty behind. Vilgrain lumbered forward in a drunken stagger crashing open the side door, his features dim in the growing shadows. “I’ll show you what I do to weasels when I catch them in my kitchen!” He screamed. He raised his unsteady hand and fired at the boys as they ran. Jeffery, puffing laboriously, ran as fast as his legs would carry him and Rabbit passed him easily and sped for the woods. Vilgrain had also started to run, shotgun in hand, at an alarming speed. “Weasels! Weasels!” he yelled.

In no time Rabbit reached the tree line and turned to see Jeffery running out of gas only halfway to the forest edge as Vilgrain gained on him.

“Run! Run god damn it!”

Vilgrain pounced forward and tackled the boy to the ground with an audible grunt. Roughly he pulled a now weeping Jeffery to his feet and pointed the shotgun at the boy. “Listen here!” Vigrain shouted to the woods. “You better come out, or I’m going to give your friend a new asshole to shit out of. Let`s just say he`ll be wiping from both ends.”

Jeffery whimpered, “Help me Rabbit! Please!”

Frightened, but unable to leave Jeffery behind, Rabbit walked slowly from the woods. His legs felt weighted, but he forced himself to walk toward Vilgrain and his hostage. “Don’t hurt him Mr. Vilgrain. We didn’t mean no harm.”

Behind his back, Rabbit fiddled with one of his Dad’s lighters trying to ignite the smoke bomb. Soon as I’m close enough, I’ll toss this at his feet, he’ll let go of Jeffery and we’ll both be gone. Old Man Vilgrain won’t know what hit his drunken ass.

As he came closer he could hear the wick catch and start to sizzle. Rabbit began to take wider strides until he was almost next to his adversary. “Ah-ha!” He tossed the cherry bomb down at the feet of Old Man Vilgrain. The three looked down at the flaming projectile as it sputtered and fizzled out. Vilgrain grabbed hold of Rabbit’s collar an escorted the boys back to his house. “You’re Richard Bradley’s boy aren’t ya?”

“Yes sir,” Rabbit said.

“I don’t believe your father will be too please with your antics this evening. In fact, I’m going to recommend your parents give you both a good beating.”

The beating hadn’t come, but a two week grounding had resulted in the loss of, as Jeffery put it, “the precious summer juice.” Not that Rabbit suffered from his solitude. He could get out of the house if had wanted to. Many nights he had met up with Jeffery when his father had thought he’d been in bed. It was as simple as climbing into the attic through the trap door in his closet, then out the far window vent on to the roof of the back porch and then down the trellis to pay-dirt.

“So what do you say Rabbit, we going to go get even with Old Man Vilgrain, or not?”

“Alright, alright!” Rabbit said kicking off the covers and popping out of bed.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Do you know how I know you're gay?

You go to this site to ask questions to see if you are.

Seems like I've been posting a lot of links, I'm getting lazy.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Now, back to the regularly scheduled sexual content

Today's semen swallowing tips. You're welcome.

There's a past girlfriend, or two, who would benefit from this.

If you hate the taste of cum, tell your boyfriend/husband to eat pineapples for about 2 days before, and it will taste sweeter. - Anonymous, Virginia

Some women don’t like to swallow semen because of the sharp sensation it leaves in their throat. And there is nothing much to do about that. What I found to be the next best thing (possibly even better) is that she slowly lets it ooze out of her mouth while sucking (best done while sitting up). - Rob, Europe

At first I was afraid to swallow. But then my best friend said the best thing to do is suck on Tic Tacs before sucking on a cock. And she was right. - Melissa, U. S.

I would recommend putting something sweet in your mouth before you swallow and get tongue ring. Gives your guy a better experience. - Ann, Iowa

The most obvious thing to do is use a condom. It may not be as pleasurable to your partner than it would be without it, but hey, it is better than nothing, right? I mean, you should not have to suffer. There are also flavored condoms for your pleasure. - Neva, New York

I've always swallowed. Now, I love seeing the look on my husband's face as our eyes are locked on the other's and he shoots his streams of cum into my mouth. It's just magical. However the taste is something that I've never really gotten used to. Over the years I've learned to deep throat him completely even though he's about 8 inches and average thickness. I've learned from asking him that it's almost more enjoyable for him to cum while he's in my throat than it is when he's shooting it all over my tongue and the back of my mouth. The big advantage it gives me when I deep throat him and he comes is that I never taste it. When I sense he's starting to have his orgasm I just take a deep breath and push his cock down my throat as far as I can and begin swallowing. That method hasn't failed to make him have an immediate orgasm. He says my swallowing almost feels like I'm finishing him off with a hand job around the head of his cock. - Anonymous, U. S.

WTF is this like Penthouse Forum?

I just swallow and think of ice cream! - Jisses, Sweden

Open and dump one packet of Equal into your mouth before receiving sperm into mouth. Viva la jizz! - Anonymous, Florida

Viva la Jizz? Now there's a good name for a rock band.

It is erotic when you swallow cum. At first, it's yucky, but keep in mind that you accept the guy in your life - you accept everything in him. If you can't swallow the whole cum at one time, just press the penis a little bit to control the flow of cum and swallow little by little. Another technique is to deep throat when a guy is near climax and let the cum get down into the throat by itself. You will never taste anything bad. Before you know it, all the cum is inside you. - June, L. A.
As an earlier poster mentioned, diet has a profound effect on the qualities of the cum. But while fish may make the taste even worse, some foods can improve the taste somewhat. Citrus, especially, is good for this. Drinking a lot of juice (pineapple seems to work best) should affect the taste enough to make it bearable. - Anonymous, California

Strangedaze: Miss a day, miss.......

...absolutely nothing at all apparently, since I have been remiss to post anything in the last 48 hours- give-or-take.

Personally, I blame the colon cleansing.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

The Inauguration Day 2009 Drinking Game

While you're enjoying Obamapalooza, why not take a drink every time someone says:

“Change” (as a noun)
“Most anticipated inauguration in history”
The name of a celebrity who thinks their opinion matters.

Drink Every Time:

Joe Biden’s hairplugs are awkwardly noticeable.
You see Oprah crying.
W glances at his watch.
You see a mediocre looking chick with political aspirations in the crowd.
Chris Matthews appears to get a boner.
You see Obama’s face on a t-shirt.
A white guy pretends to know the words to a Black Eyed Peas song.
Keith Olbermann comes off as a smug, pretentious asshole.
Someone in the crowd passes out.
You see a bearded hippie.
Jesse Jackson takes credit for Obama’s campaign.
A Fox News correspondent speaks in hushed tones with an air of faux patriotism.

Monday, January 19, 2009

And you thought you were lucky

Just check out this link for some of the luckiest S.O.B.s you'll ever see.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Book of the Weak Club (part 2)

Hijacking Heaven

Chapter II

Garret Manning worked diligently on a transformer above Route 2 trying to repair the power line. The bucket of his cherry-picker sat forty-feet up, at a sixty-degree angle, to the right of the troubled area. With his heavy work gloves he commanded the wrench and tightened another bolt of the damaged wire. There had been a lot of outages over the past few months and Manning seemed to be the one dispatched to repair it all. The region had suffered more than its fair share of violent storms since the winter broke and the weather had been blamed for the downed power lines.

Fuck me if I don’t develop some incurable disease, or my dick drops off from all this electromagnetic bullshit. Manning had known quite a few of the old-timers who had bitched and moaned over hazardous work conditions like this, causing a variety of ailments. “Gave me the cancer don’t-cha-know?” Some were still wagging their gums about it to this day, to anyone who’d listen. Others, who weren’t yet grave-side, as they say, let the rhythmic beeps and the gentle push of oxygen through tubes by their hospital beds do the talking for them. And for what? So the fuckers have power for their lap tops, their big screen LCDs, their fucking microwaves. Can’t they go one minute without checking the torrents to see if the porn they’re download is complete? It gives me a fuckin’ headache.

And this year, especially, had been brutal. In his six years on the job he’d never worked in so much rainy slop and today seemed like it would be no different as again dark clouds had moved in to block out the sun. A siren bellowed from below and drew his attention to an ambulance snaking its way along the roads with lights flashing. The sound cut through the heaviness and seemed to pierce Manning’s ears in a high-pitched buzzing.

On its way to Martin City or perhaps Whitefish General with some idiot, he thought. Caught an arm in the grinding tines of a hay-bailer, swerved to miss a deer and hit a tree....fuckin’ tourists. Or some cheep asshole trying to rewire his own electrical I’ll bet. He’d seen that enough times over the years. Just found the unfortunate bastard next to the air-conditioner, stiff as a fucking coon that’s been lying roadside stinking for three days. Yup, out here if you die, could be quite some time before anyone found you.

He knew Len Grimsby over at the Ranger station in Glacier National Park who had told him he’d found the remains of a hiker once. “Some college kid out of Madison, just him and his back-pack. Off to see the world. Half mas-tee-cated by bears and what not,” Len had said, while he chomped on a corn-beef sandwich. “And what was left had to be picked up with a shovel. Fit nice’n tidy into a garbage bag though, maggots and all, but really stunk up the back of my truck.”

As the ambulance drifted from view a light drizzle began to fall. In the distance thunder rumbled making Manning wince. Fuck not again. Can’t get any work done on this muthafucka. Then he realized, No, not thunder. A passing jet somewhere up above the clouds.

The sound faded, but added to a growing sensation in his ears, a slight pressure, as if his brain was slowly increasing in size and searching for a way out through his aural cavity.

Manning dropped the wrench and removed his gloves. He shoved a finger into his right ear and wiggled it back and forth as if the simple gesture would miraculously cause the sensation to subside. See all you old-timers. You just need to give your brain a good scratchin’ every fourth electrical tower, or so. Works like a charm. But the miracle cure did not help. It only seemed to intensify the problem.

The rain started to fall with monotonous regularity causing the sound to sizzle in his ear drums. It seemed to add a sense of nausea to the pressure and Manning felt an insatiable urge to get down. Piss on this. I’ll just tell them it was thunder I heard and call it a day. Get something for this fuckin’ headache, stop by Jesse’s bar for a cold one, then home to the wife and kids. Just have to tighten a few bolts and done anyway. Just tighten the line.....which line?

Manning couldn’t remember...not like him. Sure he’d misplaced the car keys, forgot to stop for milk, been late to pick up his son from Little League, but who hadn’t? It had never happened at work before and definitely not around an active power-line.

The ringing in his ears intensified. Fuck this! I’m getting down!

Manning turned to the bucket control levels. They all looked the same to him. He couldn’t remember which lever took the bucket lower. What the fuck? I’ve done this a million times. Why can’t I remember which fuckin’ lever to push?

Every drop of rain splashing off his hardhat felt like an explosion in his mind. He started to panic. I need to get down from here right the fuck now! The middle lever! That’s it! That’s the one!

He pushed the middle lever. The bucket ascended. No, not that one.

The pain in his ears was becoming unbearable. He began to push all the levers. The bucket of the cherry picker began to pitch and weave; jerking lower, then higher, side-to-side, finally into the live power lines. Instinctively he put his bare hands up. He felt the heavy wire crush his chest and the electric surge of thousands of kilowatts coarse through his body. He never even realized he bit through his tongue, or felt the flesh of his feet melt into pools in his boots.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Something wicked this way....and you know the rest

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel that there is some sort of crisis brewing for next week?

Let's see we have volatile markets, an economy in the crapper, giant corporations going bankrupt, a weak currency and a JFK-like president being inaugurated who just happens to be the first black president ever.

I mean holy fuck! Where is Jack Bauer? If this doesn't sound like the perfect storm for something big followed by marshal law and an impending one world currency I don't know what is.

Honestly does anyone think George W. is really going to go quietly into that dark night?

Perhaps this paranoia is all nothing and just the product of some disturbing dreams of late, but I can't shake the feeling of dread.

As I stated last week, maybe we should wait for full daylight and look at the one-legged hooker first, before we decide to bite our arm off.

I'm going to get a lot of mileage out of that.

Sorry to be so serious this cold Saturday morning, but....well.....good morning! Now wake up!

Friday, January 16, 2009

Famous dudes I almost know (part 2)

Wayne Gretzky

Wayne and I go waaaaaay back. We're both from Brantford: home of Alexander Graham Bell and the Market Square Chip Wagon. We both attended North Park Collegiate- although Wayne soon departed for the Soo Greyhounds to play hockey. I knew his sister Sue and one brother Brent.

We actually played against one another. I checked him several times, when the play had stopped and I could catch him.

I'm sure Wayne and I would've cultivated a long lasting friendship that would have had me be best man at the wedding, fly out to L.A. to hang by the pool, even check out some shows on Broadway when he played for the Rangers, but when you score 16 goals on my goaltender in the first period alone, that's where I draw the line.

Have a nice life puckhog.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


Bob Noxious just sent me this gem. Check it out.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Celebrities by the numbers

With the announcement of Benifer's new baby name, Seraphina, not to mention the Golden Globes and the impending Oscar nods coming next week, celebs sure seem to be front and centre.

So why not celeb by the numbers for today?

Let's start with 120 mugshots of your fave star.

20 Celebrities if they were midgets.....or little people perhaps the politically correct term.....OK damn it! Vertically challenged! Happy now?

The 10 worst types of drunks. It could be about celebrities. See mugshots.

Monday, January 12, 2009

I almost forgot

A few weeks ago a milestone passed without much fanefare....hell, I even forgot about it. But I started my fifth year of blogging here at Strangedaze on January 2nd.

Wow! Five years! The things I could have done with that time instead of posting inane links and mumbo-jumbo.

I could have gotten a tattoo, spent some time in prison, experienced my first anal, gang-rape in the shower, killed a small animal with a stick, spent thousands on higher education that would find me working at the LCBO.

I could have set up a world record domino display, made peace with my inner demons, your inner demons, you friends and families inner demons.

I could have had my blood flushed out in Switzerland, attempted to climb Everest before I died halfway up due to my idiodic sherpa..... I could have gone to Mexico for a vacation.....actually scratch that....I'm going next month.

I could have watched more porn and beat my dick like it owed me money.

Man I sure gave up a lot.

But I'm the type of guy who waits for full sunlight to see the one-legged hooker before deciding to bite my arm off.

Not sure I really know what that means, but it sounds cool.

Happy blog birthday to me....

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Book of the Weak Club (part 1)

Hijacking Heaven (1st draft)

“Today Robert Forder must die.”

The threat did not come easily, nor was it a statement expecting an answer. No one heard it, but Graham Sheppard spoke the words anyway, as if to summon the courage, evoke the genie from the gun, in a piston of lead, sure to cut short the life of anyone forced to take it.

Sheppard’s head still hung as if in meditation- wrestling with all thought. He sat on the edge of the bed in his t-shirt and underwear with his bare feet clutching the shitty, blue motel carpet. The smell of burnt dust still emanated in the air, released by the heat on the shade of the night table lamp overturned in the darkness. It now sent horizontal beams into the dimness.

A sheath of dark hair hung in front of Sheppard’s deep set eyes. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands trapped the smooth handle of the gun. His skin had gone pale, taking on an almost luminous quality. But for the greying stubble of beard on his face there would be no color at all.

The covers lay in mountainous heaps around him- a fortress of sleep disturbed. Only hours ago they had been flat and smooth like the calmness of a lake in the depths of midnight. But the storms had come; the nightmares yet again, the searchlight fingers, the fiery penetrating eyes in an endless river of sweat and the sudden jolt to full alertness. It was an epiphany causing Sheppard to saw through the silence of REM into a violent, repetitive gasp for breath.

“How has it come to this?” he said. But Sheppard already knew the answer. With everything Forder had done right, he’d made one critical mistake. He had called her, and in the moment of his weakness, he had brought on this final wrath. “This house of cards you’ve created will tumble in on itself. There’s no escaping death this time old friend.”

The heavy drapes still blocked out the morning in a scrim of impenetrable darkness. Not that it would’ve mattered, for today was like so many other days lately- overcast and brooding, casting a pall, in a sombre reflection of the tempestuous moods; depression, fatigue, despair....and the truth. The truth of what Forder knew...could he be allowed to live with the knowledge any longer?

Robert Forder knew something was going to happen....something big- chaos on a global scale forged in the furnace of a new world order. He knew everything and those behind it and how far they were willing to push the envelope to see their plans come to fruition. To them the planet had become an ill tended garden overrun with pests and choked by weeds, but things could be fixed. Oh yes. The population could be culled. They would succeed where wars had failed and their envisioned Eden; their heavenly nirvana, would be restored.

Whatever they had in mind, to be sure, it was coming and it would start in the little town of Coram, Montana, population three-hundred and thirty-seven, Forder knew it. He knew their dirty little secrets, the experiments swept under the rug, the ever watchful eyes and who they focused on. ...And he knew if everything went according to plan.....none would live.

How strange that word seemed you could call it that?

Sheppard had not lived for some time. Not since Dr. Robert Forder, renowned scientist with a B.A , from Sonoma State in environmental studies, graduated with honors and started to crank those wheels in motion eventually leading to his disappearance. The good doctor had cut his teeth with various agencies studying the effects of global warming, and a virtual stew of environmental hazards. The work had been extensive but not without accolades. The list of awards and recognition for his work was celebrated and had been dished out from the EPA all the way to the fucking White House.

But his motivation and pursuit of truth had caused him to delve too deep. He had made some vicious enemies and then the anonymous calls and warnings had started.

“Unfortunate things can happen to inquisitive people Dr. Forder. Remember that. It would be a shame to lose something you cherish. Perhaps a new line of work would better suit you?”

So Forder had died, for the first time, before someone else did the job for him. He had neatly folder his clothes near the water’s edge and walked naked into the Pacific Ocean leaving everything behind- the career, the house, the dog, the Volvo...and her. Helen had been the love of his life, but for love and her safety, he had to let her go.

Yet, the body of Robert Forder was never found. Even as the word of a prominent scientist taking his own life had eroded into yesterday’s news and the public interest had once again moved onto gas prices, social unrest, and foreign conflicts, there were those who suspected he had survived. Sheppard new beyond the shadow of a doubt the man still walked on mortal coil. It’s why this is so fucked up. Why it’s come down to this.

A strange warmth now emanated from the gun as if trying to calm, or reassure Sheppard everything would be OK. One moment of strength Shep, of self control, commitment and it will all be over. Don`t let him plead for his life. No barter of give and take. Kill Forder for good. End it for real this time.

Graham Sheppard understood one thing. He was doing Forder a favour. Better his death come swiftly from Sheppard’s gun then the torturous, slow and painful end they would inflict. He knew how they operated; what they were capable of to protect their own skin. The only question, when the time came, would Sheppard be able to pull the trigger?

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since Robert Forder ceased to exist and morphed into the man he now called Graham Sheppard. It seemed like years instead of the few months, but when you’re constantly looking over your shoulder time has a way of playing tricks on you.

This was no longer Dr. Robert Forder the buttoned-down three piece suit -type with the manicured finger nails and the clean shaven face, sitting on the edge of the bed in a musty motel room at forty bucks a night. This was Graham Sheppard, fugitive, running from shadows in a deadly game of hide and seek. Ready or not, here they come.

After all, he had given it a good run to elude those who suspected he still lived...hadn’t he? The used car Graham Sheppard had paid cash for had been delivered to the parking lot a few miles down the beach as instructed. The clothes and necessities had all been carefully concealed in a water–tight bag in a labyrinth of rock by a cave near the water’s edge and his new identity had been waiting under the spare tire with the gun and the extra set of car keys.

All that remained was to get the fuck out of Dodge. Make a clean getaway and try to begin again. But the knowledge....the truth? It wouldn’t let him rest, not even as Graham Sheppard and the dreams had started- the nightmares of an apocalypse too grotesque to imagine. Sheppard had resigned himself to the mission of heading north to try and warn the people of Coram. But would anyone believe him?

All his work, all his proof, was most certainly gone, scattered to the winds, ground through shredders, burned beyond recognition to pools of ash. They’d make sure of it, adding to the pyres of other important research and studies now being destroyed, or classified by manipulated government agencies across the globe.

And there’s no fucking time now!

Perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this, but for....the mistake. Helen. He had called just to hear her voice again, however sad and sombre, but they had been there. He sensed them through the phone line as a bloodhound senses the trail of the fox. They had been there listening as Helen answered and unable to stop himself he’d uttered the words, “I’m Sorry.” After the ensuing shock and silence she had responded, “Robert is that you?” and in panic he had hung up.

Now, they no longer suspected he lived, they knew. They would find him and his end would be none too pleasant. They would add him to a roll-call of other important scientists and micro biologists who had gone missing, or met with “unfortunate” tragic ends. It was only a matter of time before they traced the call to a payphone at a Stop N’ Go outside of Butte and no need for rocket science to connect the dots to Coram.

Sheppard had driven through the night along I90 to Missoula then the back way, along highway 200 to route 83 and up past Condan. He had worn a face respirator since Flathead Lake until he`d checked in to the motel in Columbia Falls and sequestered himself in this dingy room.

Everything else had been meticulous- pay cash, take the plates off the car before first light, remove a light bulb from the fixture illuminating his door, break it into shards of eggshell outside his room, chair to the door handle, lock everything and sleep, however restless, with the gun on the mantle of his chest.

Sheppard traced his eyes to the night table where he`d fingered through the bible in search of a few passages of comfort. Never one for religion over science, he now concluded, with mortality precariously held in the balance between his hands, no harm in crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s.

Perhaps ignorance was indeed bliss and those in great danger would simply be better off not knowing what was going to happen?

Sheppard could cheat it now...take the coward’s way out. Gun under the chin...pull the over...OK, in the mouth, sure not to miss; precise, instantaneous...finite. Then when they found him, they could make up any story they wanted……but Helen?

Six months ago Robert Forder had died, today so would his alter ego Graham Sheppard.

Slowly he raised the gun with robotic accuracy and placed it between his teeth. The barrel cold in the mouth, almost the metallic taste like blood... how soon it would taste like blood for real...finger on the trigger ready to rock and roll....a final explosion, a searing hot sensation in the brain...then nothing. The pain would be gone, the paranoia, the running, the memories of her.

I’m so sorry Helen.

Sheppard’s finger cocked the the distance a siren sounded.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

The weekend numbers

If you're finding your self stray from those New Year resolutions to loose weight perhaps you need to reacquaint yourself with motivation.

Top 10 funniest workout videos.

Plus the 10 hottest moments in Japanese game show history. You really have nothing better to do, do you?

The top 100 best Nazi/ Zombie movie fights of all time....well actually there's only the one, but it's worth watching.

Friday, January 09, 2009

I'm here for you

So, it's ho-hum January. The holidays are over. The frivolity is at an end. Nothing to do but bunker down and hold out til spring, like a gunman holding hostages.

You may even feel a sickness coming on, or imagine you do.

I'm here to help you. Give you a much needed "me day", or as many "me days", as you need.

"But my work?" you say......"They'll never buy it."


Go here and lean the fine art of calling in sick when you aren't.

You're welcome.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Famous dudes I almost know (part 1)

Geddy Lee

Me and Geddy go way back. In fact, the early nineties I'd have to say was when I almost knew the bassist/vocalist for Rush.

The band was busy releasing a string of memorable albums like "Presto", and others I can't remember, but we both put our time in at Chalet Studios in Clairemont, sweating in the same sauna, shitting in the same en-suite, drinking from the same "Salesman" cup. I was going to say sleeping in the same bed, but Neil had that room.

We viewed the same pristine valley disappearing into the treeline while we laid down our separate vocal tracks; enjoyed the warm sunshine by the pool during guitar overdubs, and pestered the same audio engineers.

Yup me and Geddy were almost real buddy-buddy if our sessions hadn't been six months apart.

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

The sky is angry my friends

As Old Man Winter opens up on us again and the shovels are poised for another dig-out there's only one thing to do.

Buy yourself a penis stretcher.

And I don't want to hear any complaints about how you're a woman and have a vagina.


Monday, January 05, 2009

Symbols and a bumroll

If you are ever thinkng you're going to end up penniless and on the streets one day, or perhaps you work in an area where homeless and beggers abound then this link should be of great assistance to you.

By going to it and studing the symbols there you'll know if the dumpsters are worthy of exploring, or the prostitutes are really dudes, or to watch out for the Soylent Green bulldozers.'d already know that you're in an agitated homeless area.

Sunday, January 04, 2009

Position yourself accordingly

Here it is: Every Sexual Position Known to Man/Woman

From A to Z

From Acrobat to Wheelbarrow, you'll find it here with all the numbered positions as well.

whether your a fan of the simplistic Basset Hound and Deep Impact, or you adore the more complex like the Ballerina and the Viennese Oyster, the link's for you

Book of the Weak Club

Some of you may have noticed there's a new book cover on the sidebar.

Normally I have a hard enough time posting my work when it's complete, yet in an effort to get my ass in motion to finish this project, I'm going to start blogging the first draft of my new manuscript, "Hijacking Heaven" starting next week.

For those of you have come to know Strangedaze as a place of absurdity on the fine line of stupidity, I will ask you to suspend your preconceived notions of me.

This new work is extremely out of my element and contains no dick and fart references like my past works.

I'd go as far as to say, it's of a more serious nature. I guess a brief synopsis would be, Stephen King meets the series 24.

So if you like that kind of thing, check it out next week.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

One for OBJ

My good buddy OBJ has made the natural excretion of human waste an art form over the years, but even he must have a question or two about the process.

If you've ever wondered about defecating and why it looks, smells and tastes like it does.....OK, scratch taste....then this next link is definitely for you.

Everything you wanted to know about poop but were afraid to ask.

Now the next time you walk into your house holding a big-ol-pile of dog shit in your hand saying, "Hey! look what I almost stepped in!", you can now impart some interesting tidbits about your fecal matter.

Likewise if your wife ever walks in while you're watching, Two Girls, One Cup, you can claim it's educational material.

Friday, January 02, 2009

Strangedaze 101-4-09

What you can expect from these pages in the coming year?

Specifically, no idea.

On a broader spectrum, more of the same.

More sex, drugs and rock-n-roll. With yesterday's two posts, I'm already on pace to beat last year's personal blogging best.

After all, why mess with a winning formula that has made me one of the least read blogs on the net. Once they realize the importance of an award for lowest readership, I'm a shoe-in.

I suppose, I'll keep variations of what has graced, or marred these pages previously, but I'd like to work in a few new features like "Famous Dudes I almost know," and a return of, "Book of the Weak Club," and yes I spelled weak correctly.

In all, I will try to make coming here an enjoyable distraction.

Thanks for coming.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

Blog Resolutions

Every year at this time I do a mission statement for the year. It helps to guide my thought process and subconsciously keeps me on target to listed goals.

I thought I would try one for the Blog this year.

So here goes:

I will try to Blog everyday. (The optimum word here, being Try).

I will definitely NOT, try to break my personal best for Blogging next year.

I will stop masturbating while I post.

I will keep my pilfering of material to a minimum as it pertains to resolution #1

I will start using more than two fingers while typing.

I will decrease my posting of offensive and crude....oh to hell with this!

New Year happiness

All the best in 09 people.