December 31, 2010
1. Because of his father, Carlos had never told anyone that he was born on December 31, but he would always secretly pretend that the entire world was celebrating his birthday.
2. The music seemed to slow as they stared at each other from across the room with lust and wonder in their eyes, completely unaware that the test subjects had gotten out of their cages.
3. As they finished their last song and the countdown began, Terry looked across the stage at New Terry with hatred and satisfaction, knowing that once the poison took effect he would start 2011 as the only Terry in the band.
4. "Two glasses of Pink Champagne please," said Tyler, hoping that that the bartender would recognize the code and tell him where they were holding his daughter.
5. After his gender reassignment surgery, Brendan -- now Brandeen -- was going to celebrate the newest new year she ever had.
6. "Kiss me now, or the future will be forever altered," Bob drunkenly told the chesty redhead as, time traveler or not, he was on a mission to get some.
7. After four years, Cameron had decided he was in love with Christine and -- as long as the guards didn't find the tunnel -- he was going to tell her tonight.
November 26, 2010
Law school will have to wait. It will have to wait because you're pregnant and you are quite literally carrying the spawn of Satan.
You began to suspect something was wrong when insects and spiders began infesting your home, crawling up the walls and falling out of light fixtures. You assumed it was the changing seasons, although you thought that bugs were supposed to go outside in the spring, not come in. It didn't matter though, because you were moving away to go to law school and become a famous trial lawyer like Aunt Freya.
But when the snakes came you knew that the seasons were not to blame. First little garden snakes would cross your path, but eventually you began to wake up the sound of rattlers and cobras hissing outside your window. Finally, you couldn't leave the house without pythons sliding up your leg and gently enveloping your body in their serpentine tenderness, moving with you like extra appendages, their knowing eyes betraying nothing except their fierce devotion to your protection.
"Maybe I should have made that goat wear a condom," you'll tell yourself, thinking back to your grad trip to Cuba. You wanted to do something wild and spontaneous before you went off to law school to become a famous trial lawyer like Aunt Freya. So you fucked a goat on grad trip. And now you're pregnant with a demon child.
You're now in line at airport security on your way to Rome where a council of elders in Vatican City is waiting to exorcise the demon that is growing in your infernal uterus. Your eyes are red and wet with tears as you begin to realize that you may never be able to have children again and die sad and alone, just like Aunt Freya. You begin to sob again just as you pass through the metal detectors. The security guard motions for you to follow her into an adjacent room where she asks you to disrobe. She begins to inspect your body, running her hands everywhere, finally grabbing your vag like a baggage handler.
"Don't touch my junk!" you shout. Just then, your water breaks and the tears of the damned flow onto the floor. The son of Satan bursts forth and attacks the security guard, devouring her face. Hell rises to our plane of existence and humanity is enslaved and time stands still in perpetual damnation.
The Word of the Day is "Don't touch my junk," an interjection indicating one's refusal to have one's person searched at the airport in an invasive fashion.
November 18, 2010
November 12, 2010
Do you remember the days when you'd be sitting at a funeral and a completely brilliant yet utterly reprehensible/disgusting/legally-actionable comment would flash to mind but you'd have no one to tell it to? Painful, right? You'd be looking for someone to unleash this little gem on, but would be surrounded by a group of half-wits who just don't "get" the genius of a good funeral streaking joke. Enter Twitter. Suddenly these comments which had formerly been relegated to whispers were the new public currency of wit.
In piecing together their material, Twitter's humourists have certain models of tweeting which give their raw wit coherent form. When I see a guy on a unicycle, I can't just tweet "Saw a man on a unicycle. He looks like a jackass." The concept needs to be fit into a workable Twitter model. For example: "Wife left me. Just got fired. Having difficulty urinating. Time to buy a unicycle." Or "Unicycles: amusing exercise alternative or pedophile markers?" You can work any concept into a Twitter form and see great results, namely the mild amusement of dozens of people you don't know. Here are a few tried and true models which will guarantee Twitter stardom.
It's so ironic you got mauled by a lion when you love cats! Did I use "ironic" wrong? Isn't THAT ironic, ha ha! Gosh, that's a lot of blood. (@fireland)
I'm no Fields medal-winning mathematician/astronaut, but if a picture is worth a thousand words, then 140 characters has got to be worth at least ten times that. This tweet takes a moment in a story and plants it with the reader like a brain parasite. The reader fills in the gaps. Result? Hilarity.
The Hashtag Hail Mary
For some reason I can't get Mozilla Firefox to work. I have to use shitty, virus prone, Internet Explorer. Grrrrrrrr. #firstworldproblems (@lpizzle)
It's a dumb observation or a nonsense statement, but then, bang, hashtag saves it. Witness another:
Do ghosts shit? #WhyamIstillatwork (@houseofcarlyle)
The hashtag adds another layer, like refried beans in a dip or a Vietnamese teen in a cuddle party. Hashtags don't just have to be search points for you tweet. Feel the room. Explore the space.
In my late twenties, I had a huge hole in my heart that I desperately tried to fill with fancy mustards. (@toddlevin)
If something is worth doing, it's worth doing yourself. Make the ridiculous personal. Putting a layer of fudge on a steak and calling it "Wonka-style" should be related through experience. It creates accessibility. See another:
I use chocolate as a substitute for sex, and Skittles as a substitute for masturbating in the ball room at Ikea. (@houseofcarlyle)
The idea in the abstract is amusing, but when you imagine the author with his pants around his ankles making angry love to himself in a Swedish furniture store, I dare you not to barf laughing.
The "something is like something else"
A hot woman pushing a baby carriage is like a photo of a pizza. (@thesulk)
The more cerebral the better.The reader appreciates having to engage a level of intellect beyond that required to laugh at a fail clip. You can't stretch too far, though. Because an overly-tenuous Twitter analogy is like fencing with Tony Hopkins. See? Try a better one out:
Low-pressure showers are like bad sex. It's fine. You get used to it. And then one day you experience the alternative and OH! OH OH! OH GOD! (@sween)
Funny AND True
Women spend 2% of their lives trying to figure out where bruises on their legs came from. (@thesulk)
This one even your grandmother can enjoy. Foibles! Humour! We're so fallible!
The "Suck It, Somebody Else"
Okay amateur photographers, the 1,000,000,000,000th close-up photo of a flower has been taken. It's safe to move on to other objects now. (@DamienFahey)
It's the insult comedy of the Twitter world. We try not to do it, but it's just so easy. And Twitter is the ultimate punch in the dark.
The Monologue Joke
My internet is so slow, it's just faster to drive to the Google headquarters and ask them shit in person. (@roughdiction)
Imagine Carson stepping up and lobbing this one into the crowd. It's safe. It's timely. We laugh. No one's going to get upset. Go again:
My wife read that using a laptop on your lap can lower your sperm count and that's why we own 32 laptops now. (@sween)
Jokes! These are jokes. It's great. Stop complaining.
Some people are their own punishment. (@thesulk)
Many tweeters are so full of self-loathing that the only thing standing between them and a long walk off a short pier is those 140 characters. These tweets turn deeply inwards. The ha-ha is followed by a furrowed hmm. But wit is wit and funny is funny.
The Twisted Saying
There is not a lot to discuss with these, because it's the best kind of humour: wit imposed on convention. Take something you know and cover it in latex:
There must be a trick to fighting fire with fire because my kitchen just pretty much has twice as much fire now. (@badbanana)
The best way to destroy an enemy is to turn him into a friend! The 2nd best way is to drop a stove on him from a helicopter. (@robdelaney)
When life gives you tape, make tapenade. (@houseofcarlyle)
Yes, We Can
I figured out why I stay here: a nagging suspicion that if I write the one perfect tweet, I can unlock the next level & be able to move on. (@UncleDynamite)
I'll tell you why I like this one. Twitter is a community of idiocy. It's a complete waste of time. The only reason any of us spend hours a day thinking about it is that we have the irrepressible desire to share our perspective to amuse others. At base, the subtext to every tweet is "Grace me with your approval." Sad? Absolutely. But we are small, pathetic things and we need all the help we can get. We might as well laugh doing it.
October 28, 2010
Rat with the Hat (China)- Children approach houses and yell out from the street: "We are looking for the rat with the hat!" The people in the house reply: "We haven't seen him. You'd better look elsewhere." The children then say: "No no! He's here! He's here!" Then they run up to the house where a bag of rats is waiting and search through it until they find the one wearing the hat. They yell out: "We found him! Give us our reward!" The children are then allowed an eel of their choice and move on to the next house.
Scurvy Monster (Sweden)- The mayor of town puts on a burlap cape and pulls a wooden cart full of oranges around screaming: "I am the Scurvy Monster! I have all the oranges!" Local children surround the Scurvy Monster and throw pennies at him until he gives them each an orange. Recent practice shows that children have taken to throwing dog feces at the Scurvy Monster and that the Scurvy Monster has begun to carry pepper spray.
Wily Wally, Don't Fuck Our Pumpkin (Australia)- Wily Wally is a character who visits houses and stuffs mailboxes with root vegetables. But if Wily Wally doesn't think you're grateful for the root vegetables, he will fuck your pumpkin. That is why the whole family must gather outside the house and loudly thank Wily Wally and also ask him not to fuck their pumpkin.
Grannie's Ghost (Brazil)- Children go from house to house pretending to be possessed by the dead relatives of the people who live there and demanding that the valuables of those relatives be returned to them. Petrified, the people in each house surrender the valuables. The children then trade them for automatic weapons and machetes to support the gangs wars they are implicated in.
Your Father Is A Prostitute (Russia)- Under Kruschev, the secret police would send out packs of children to gather intelligence on their neighbours and report back in exchange for Soviet chocolate and their families' safety. This has been replaced by groups of children roaming around vandalizing homes until the father of the house comes outside and admits he is a prostitute.
October 11, 2010
1. The first man who put on a pair of jeans with a blazer and said "You know what? I'm going with this tonight."
2. The phrase "Check yourself before you wreck yourself," for giving me something to say when the salesperson tells me to stop smelling the mannequins.
3. That one ethnicity I really can't stand (you know who you are), for allowing me to blame all my problems on you.
4. SLR cameras, because without you boring people would have nothing to hang around their necks at the farmers' market.
5. My cuddle party group, for being so understanding about all the erections and crying.
6. Vodka sodas, for giving me the smooth, clean drunk I need to run Little League practice.
7. The 1988 film "Working Girl," for giving me strength when I thought I had none.
September 27, 2010
A seductive woman, a street-wise Latino, a sophisticated Brit: these are all options available to you when selecting the voice on your GPS. This choice can be pivotal as you are selecting the voice and personality which will be guiding your through you travels, directing you when you're lost, and talking you off when you've gotten that desperate. Celebrities have even gotten in on it. Imagine Kim Cattrall telling you to make a right turn at the next light or Burt Reynolds mixing ethnic slurs in with his directions to your next meeting. Here are a few others which will soon be available:
1. Albert the lazy-eyed fishmonger
Albert is an half-Chinese, half-Japanese fish and seafood professional. More than anything else in the world, Albert wants to sell you oysters. He'll get you where you're going, but he is also going to try to get you to buy a dozen fresh Malpeques and a sack of day-old scallops in a thickly-accented semi-English. Where's the nearest Jiffy Lube, Albert? He'll tell you right after he's done scaling that grouper.
2. Angry Drifter
Angry Drifter does not have a name, or at least won't tell it to you until you've given him a cigarette. He's seen a lot -- too much even -- and he's lost even more. To him, the most efficient route to the airport at rush hour is the one with the least heartbreak, and distance is measured in stories, not miles. If you're waiting for him to tell you which exit you should take for Arby's, you might only get silence, because Angry Drifter could give a fuck about you and your problems.
3. Bernadette the wedding planner
Here's the thing with Bernadette: she's new at this. She graduated with a degree in marketing and thought that she'd be doing PR for Chanel by now, but after a few years of bumping around advertising agencies compiling market research and trying unsuccessfully to fellate her bosses, she finally decided to join her friend's wedding planning company. She has not quite seized on the concept of "owning" her own recommendations, so she will invariably give you three or four different options at every intersection, depending on the theme you're going for and what your budget is.
4. Red Sox Fan/Closeted Homosexual
It's every indecipherable Boston accent you've ever heard, but with a twist: he's into dudes. He'll call you a "queah" when you take a wrong turn, but the self-loathing is so obvious that you can't help but feel sorry for him. If he's drunk, you might get a long crying jag instead of directions to the golf course, or he'll guide you to some guy named Tommy's house where he claims he "just needs to get a few things off his chest."
5. Heavy-breathing pervert
Apart from the alarming noises and grunting, this voice is clear and direct, commanding even, although you might find yourself passing in front of a lot of pet stores.
September 15, 2010
1. The Party
Dennis didn't care if Susan saw him eating the cake; the clown had given it to him, and Dennis had been raised to do what clowns say.
No one at her office had ever suspected that Rachel's breasts were stolen.
3. One Less Thing
He stared at the ad announcing the sale of the trampoline, thinking that he should have paid the extra ten dollars for bold font.
4. Maybe Tomorrow
As she stepped offstage, it made Diane feel better that the men in the audience weren't yelling her real name, because "Diane" was her grandmother's name, and her grandmother didn't even know a vagina could do that.
5. The Undead Heart
Hua wasn't sure if she wanted to marry Ian, but today -- as with most days -- all she could think about was devouring human flesh.
6. Last Stop
Pershant had finally gotten up the courage to poison all the donuts, and as the first packed train pulled alongside the platform, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of the oncoming crowd.
7. Under My Dead Body
"I wonder how many people ever actually see the underside of a coffin," thought Tess, as she waited for her dead husband's accountant to cum.
September 14, 2010
The Toronto International Film Festival comes to town every fall, bringing with it the hysteria and flash-related seizures that everyone has come to expect. Actors come to promote their films which few of us will see, as festivals cater mainly to productions which do not contain the requisite number of horny robots to be commercially successful.
As such, most people really only care about the parties. Unfortunately, like a horny robot orgy, tickets are hard to come by. Fortunately, I am hosting my own TIFF party. I'm sure you have many questions. I have an equal if not greater number of answers.
You'll first want to know the location of the party. Do you know where the new Thompson Hotel is? Perfect, then you'll know that around the corner is the Estonian church whose basement I have rented out for the event. Andrus and Hele are the live-in caretakers and will be staffing the bar. Andrus doesn't like Asians and Hele still thinks it's 1972, so just play it cool if things start getting intense.
We may not have the most glamorous location, but we will have a screening! It won't be a festival film, of course, because TIFF didn't approve the venue and the church basement only has a VCR, so we'll be watching my VHS copy of "The Matrix". I'll be stopping the film occasionally to add my own commentary and to reenact a few fight scenes. If you're thinking this will draw out the evening and slow down the party, don't worry as I'll also be fast-forwarding through any scenes featuring Lawrence Fishburne as Andrus is not a fan of black people either. It's really just easier this way, trust me.
Will there be any celebrities there? In a word, no. Will there be cardboard cut-outs of celebrities there? In two words and an exclamation point, HELLS yes! Imagine showing your friends pictures of you chatting it up with 1989 Charlie Sheen or "Wayne's World" Mike Myers! Is that Sean Connery as James Bond? Crazy!
We'll have a photographer on site to document the entire evening from the glamorous entry through the parking lot at the back of the church to last call at 11 pm. This is also intended as incentive for all of you to leave your cell phones and cameras at home as Hele might stroke out if she is given any indication that it is not 1972. It's fun to pretend!
What should you wear? Again, part of the conditions of rental stipulate that we have to observe a certain religious modesty, so think Evangelical Lutheranism meets Hollywood North. Bonnets, long sleeves and dresses for the ladies and vests and fedoras for the men.
I can already tell that this is going to be THE event of the festival. I can't wait to see you all there. We're going to party like it's 1972.
August 27, 2010
Small Waist, Big Attitude
Lexington at 24th this morning. Me- brown hair, black shirt, European sunglasses. You- super hot, super fit, wearing a red shirt with white pants. Chinese, maybe. Or Pakistani. You were crossing the street. I was in my Jag. I offered you money to pee on me. You ripped the hood ornament off my Jag. Can I have it back? They're super expensive.
You- beige trenchcoat and brown briefcase. Me- sweatpants and messy hair. I looked gross but you smiled at me anyway as you got in your car. You told me you'd pick up the kids after school and meet me at my parents' place. You also said that you hoped "that today is going to be one of the good days". What does that mean? You're mysterious, crazy stranger.
I was in line at the MacDonald's near the elementary school. You were in the playground in the ball room wearing pink, fitted Dora the Explorer overalls. I asked you what you were drinking. You said root beer. I was about to get you a 50 cent refill when your grenade of a mother comes up and tells me she's going to phone the police. I ask her what her problem is and she says that I "need to stop hitting on a six year old". Just so you know, you could totally pass for eight.
Saw you crying and throwing up in the alley beside Sky Bar last night. Why were you so sad and sick? I asked you if you had any change. You called me a disgusting bum and cried and threw up more. I stole your purse and posted this message with your iPhone. Want it back? Meet me under the bridge over the ravine. Bring liquor and that smile.
We were both reading the finance section on the subway around 6 pm yesterday. Or rather I was looking over your shoulder as you read. Your hair smelled of avocado. You were getting off before me and I didn't have anything witty to say so I exposed myself to you. It'll be a funny story for our kids. Well, our adopted kids. I'm sterile.
August 18, 2010
You're having a few friends over for cocktails. Everyone is getting along well and you're getting lots of compliments on your new carpet, but not so many that you suspect that someone told everyone about it beforehand. The only thing getting more compliments than the carpet is your pair of slutty man jeans which, to your extreme pleasure, are fitting particularly sluttishly. You start to ask your friend Bill how his yurt is coming along when he interrupts you by asking where you keep your tungsten. You're about to tell him that you keep it with your DVDs like everybody else but by that time he's already reciting protocols and throwing people through windows. Your friend Bill has been replaced by a cyborg and your cocktail party is ruined.
Cyborgs are an unfortunate fact of everyday existence, like Snookie or anal bleaching. But life goes on. You need a way to sniff out these machines without being too obvious about it. You can't do blood tests because blood is icky and in this economy who can afford a home metal detector? The following techniques will help you distinguish the men and women from the machines:
Wine Pairings- If there is one thing that cyborgs always have difficulty with, it's wine selection. Faced with a complicated combination of appetizers and game meats, their heads will literally explode. So when you doubt the humanity of a dinner guest, just slide the wine menu across the table and ask whether they think the Spanish Albariño is a good match for the open-fire-grilled sablefish and Chinese cabbage. The moment you sense hesitation or see a light smoke coming from their ears, drive a length of aluminum through their chest. Then throw out a catch phrase like "Cheque please" or "Everyone stop screaming." Tonight dessert's special will be victory, served cold.
Plasma Screens- Cyborgs are gay for plasma screens. And if it's a gay cyborg then it's straight for plasma screens. Be wary of any unusual compliments or questions that you receive: "Oh, what a lovely new Samsung. May I join with it?" or "That's great resolution! What flavour plasma did you opt for?" When you begin hearing comments like these, just respond politely and reach for the taser.
Early Springsteen- Cyborgs cannot for the non-organic life of them identify the early works of Bruce Springsteen. "Spirit in the Night" or "Lost in the Flood" do not compute with them. I personally always have pre-"Born to Run" Springsteen playing just to weed out the bastards. If someone comes in and can't identify the track, they get Ol' Terminator Finger in the eye. No questions.
Sarcasm- Otherwise known as "Jewish Latin", sarcasm is imperceptible to cyborgs. It takes humans years of awkward family functions, broken relationships, and professional blunders to properly master the art. The machines can't learn it. But neither can French-Canadians, so be careful.
"Wings"- The engineer who pioneered these monsters initially designed them to boost the ratings of the '90s sitcom by creating a mass following and keeping it on the air. A program ran in their subroutine which made them find the show hilarious. The beings achieved sentience in May 1997 and Wings was canceled shortly thereafter. But the subroutine remained. As such, it's always wise to have a copy of Season 7 on hand. Right beside a high caliber handgun.
Now go sharpen up a piece of aluminum and buy a copy of "Greetings from Ashbury Park, N.J." because things are about to get hilariously violent.
August 3, 2010
A. The Grapevine
B. Monkey Bicycle
C. The Big Jewel
D. Doo Wop Gold
E. Yankee Pot Roast
F. Albino Blacksheep
G. The Walrus
Humour Website: B, C, F
Revolting Sex Act: A, D, G
Note- The Walrus is a Canadian general interest print publication (not a humour website) as well as the term for sticking one's penis through a fish and sexing someone. Thanks for playing!
July 31, 2010
Invite fourteen people over right now. NOW! Do not give them anything to eat or drink. Just relax, chill out, just play it cool, because you are both playing it cool and playing Inception: The Home Game.
Everyone is dreaming. No they're not. Shut up. Shoot me. Shoot yourself. Lie down. Now pretend everything is normal. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Those trees are growing awfully quickly. Just roll with it and get ready. Totems! Everyone punch themselves in the nuts. NOW! Fall over! Who isn't throwing up? Christian? You're a ghost. Just relax. And breathe. Because you're dead. Shut up.
I'll kill you. No you can't. I'm dead. No I'm alive. I tricked you for your own good. Okay, I should have explained this before, but everyone is an alien. Except for that guy. He's another ghost. Just shut up. We're not here right now. We're on a beach. And everything is fine. Just don't look at anyone. Because they're not there. But if you look at them you'll go into a coma. This is like a dream but not. It's in between a dream and a dream. You can't understand because you're not dead. Shut up. Shut up.
No seriously, if you open your mouth everything is over. Over over over. Take this gun. Put on this hat. Get on the motorcycle. Drive drive drive. I'm too old for this shit. Everything is narrowing because our control is narrowing. Gun it. Don't look at that guy. It's his dream. Oh shit, he saw us. Quick, kiss me. Now I throw up on you. It's cool. We're the same person. Punch yourself in the nuts.
Last seconds. Make a decision. Fight or flee. Don't do either. Because you have the choice. In here. Shoot me in the leg. No, the other leg. I'll see you on the other side. No, the other side. Fuck you. I love you. Inception.
July 30, 2010
July 22, 2010
You look pregnant. Can I have your job?
I think you'd reconsider if you knew how big my dick was.
Okay, confession time. Resume? Lies. This suit? Stolen. This watch? Sharpie.
Be that as it may, you can still suck it.
Before I came here, I ate most of an entire batch of seven layer dip that was, I'm not fucking with you, OUT OF THIS WORLD. I swear to God, I'm going straight home after this and finishing that delicious bitch off.
You easily have the sluttiest mouth I've ever seen on a man.
Can you describe your average day here for me? Do it like Training Day Denzel.
I was just in the bathroom down the hall and I did that thing where you tuck your junk between your legs and pretend your have a vag. I'm not kidding, I do that like four times a week.
If you hire me, you're not just getting a guy who tells a lot of super-gay dick jokes. You're getting a guy who tells a lot of super-gay dick jokes AND did an exchange in France.
Seriously, my dick is huge. I'll show it to you if you want. I won't get weird if you don't.
I'm definitely a Samantha.
Okay, Reese Cups are GOOD, but I haven't bought a pack in like two years, so what does that say?
I guess the thing I like most about your company is that it looks like the kind of place where I could really get some serious spanking done.
Fuck me? No, fuck you!
Look, I don't want to tell you how to run your biznass, but how about you lose that frump wagon grossing up the reception desk and get a pair of Japanese man-chicks in there who can spend the days screeching on the phone and slapping the shit out of each other. Now that'll put some meat in the seats.
Okay, you're obviously being too weird for your own good, so I'm just going to pull out my stuff and set it down on these company brochures and let you soak it in. K? Just breathe, we're all going to get through this.
July 14, 2010
Viktor Vatslav- The Bath House
Okay, so I work in men's steam bath in St-Petersburg. I am "in between things" after discharge from navy. So my cousin he says "Vik, you like being sweaty and naked with other men, you come to work at my bath house!" I ask how much gay stuff I do. He says none but I take job anyway. So I do things like make steam fire and get towels. These are months of winter so the bath house is, like, super crazy filled. Anyway, one day I am collecting the soiled towels, bending over, picking up, bending over, picking up, and every time I look up all I get is butcher window of cock. Then this one fucking guy jump in pool with no shower so I yell at him "Hey Stalinqueef! What the fuck you're doing?!" And "Stalinqueef" in Russian is very very strong. It rhymes and everything. Then this fucking guy turns around and gives me hard to describe hand gesture which makes encouragement for me to sex myself. I become enraged and am looking around room like madman for something to hit him with, but all I see is dicks! Then I look down at towel sack in my hand and I am inspired. "Hey!" I say at him, "Why do you not then go away and suck a sack of dicks?" Everyone goes very quiet. The fucking guy stops smiling, gets out of pool, gives me head apology movement, and leaves room. Other man in pool comes to me after and tells me that is most amazing thing he every heard and gives me job in Ministry of Culture and Creative Mockery. I say yes and am still there today.
Aban Lutfi- The Mosque Parking Lot
I am Muslim, yes. I am an angry Muslim, no. I go to mosque regularly, yes. I go to mosque regularly and sit in a room with a bunch of sexually repressed young men and talk about ways to kill whitey, no. But am I an angry Muslim when people assume that I am an angry Muslim? Absolutely. I then become a very angry Muslim, which probably just reinforces the image that the people making the accusation have, but fuck them, I drive an Audi. One day coming out of mosque I'm chatting UFC with a few friends when this woman walking by with her kid, maybe the kid is five or six, and she asks us why we can't just get back on our camels and go back to "fuckin' Iraqistan." My friends and I are reasonable people, so we look at each like "is she fucking with us?" and just keep talking UFC. But she keeps going. She says "My husband is in Iraq right now serving his country while you people are walking around enjoying all the freedom he's fighting for." I turn around and say that she's being really insulting and that she should go home. But she doesn't care. She says "Or what? Or you'll blow up my house?" This is my limit, so I dig deep for something really nasty, really awful to say, and, thank Jesus-Allah, there are tons of Arabic zingers, my favourite being "Air il'e yoshmotak" which translates to "May you be struck by a dick." But I go one better and tell her: "Listen woman, may you be struck in the mouth with a bag of dicks." She says nothing, just gives a shocked blank stare. The kid starts crying immediately. My friends look like they just heard OK Computer for the first time. She hurries off and I chalk one up for moderate Arabs everywhere.
Chris "Tuts" Tuttle- Alpha Zeta Beer Bong Finals
I really have to admit that I'm not a huge frat guy. But I will admit that I am a HUGE beer pong guy. When I was a kid, it was all I would play with my dad. We had a ping pong table in the basement and I kept on wanting to catch the ball and throw it back instead of hitting it with the paddle. And before my dad went gay and moved in with my softball coach we would play our version of beer pong all the time, so by the time I got to college I was a seasoned pro. My frat had made it to my college's fraternity finals and both teams had just one cup left. I was lining up my shot and about to release when some assfuck screams out "Come on Tuts!" just as I'm throwing. It bounces off the rim and off the table. Other team sinks their shot and wins. After, this guy comes up to me and apologizes for yelling during my shot. I can barely speak I'm so crushed. All I could think about was my dad and the last conversation we had before he left. I was crying as he carried his bags out the door. I asked him where he was going and he told me "Well son, your dad's going to go out there and suck a bag of dicks." So I told the guy to go do the same.
July 7, 2010
July 5, 2010
A great man once said: "A man's destiny is not written in the stars. It is not traced on his palm or hidden in a deck of cards. The true window to a man's destiny hangs with him and holds the answers to the mysteries of his existence."
Scrotum reading is an ancient practice which has persisted to the modern era. The Mesopotamians were the first to produce a comprehensive guide to the art. Written in cuneiform, the Scrotal Tablets of Zagros were unearthed in the excavation of the Great Ziggurat of Ur in 1923 by Sir Reginald Foxley. Although the excavation of the Great Ziggurat of Ur was credited to Sir Leonard Woolley, it was Foxley who recognized the tablets amongst the artifacts. From his journal:
"The excavation was an enormous undertaking. Sir Leonard described it as the single most important archeological event of the century. I would describe it as a colossal waste of time. Everything here smells like hot camel shit. This is the worst sex tour I've ever been on."
As much as Sir Reginald eventually died on the expedition as one of the first recorded victims of camel rape, his discovery of the Zagros Tablets literally revolutionized the practice of scrotum reading in the West. Prior to the discovery, scrotum reading in Europe was relegated to gypsies moving west from Russia and the eastern parts of the Austrian and Prussian Empires. There is no written record of their methods, only eyewitness accounts:
"To have one's scrotum read by a gyspy was a mystical and terrifying experience. The readers were always women blinded at birth to enhance their scrotum reading skills. The reading house which was little more than a shack with two holes cut in one wall. One would put money through one hole and one's scrotum through the other. The reader would grasp one's scrotum firmly in one hand and poke at it with a reading wand, giving vague, thickly-accented predictions. If one attempted to ask questions, the reader would deal a sharp blow to one's scrotum and demand more money. This would continue until one passed out from pain or ran out of coin."
But with the discovery of the Scrotal Tablets, scrotum reading achieved a huge surge of popularity in Europe, particularly England. Scientists developed elaborate models of scrotal mapping which linked wrinkle and follicle patterns to various humours and psychological proclivities. Dr. (later Lord) Elliot Bramsbury edited a collection of studies conducted by the Royal College of Physicians which documented this nascent medical practice. The Bramsbury Principles were distilled from over 2000 individual case studies, described here in part:
"The seminal works of mysterium follis, or 'the mysteries of the scrotum,' have centered largely on human studies involving subjects from all segments of the spectrum of humanity ranging from office clerks to labourers to psychotic criminals. Borrowing measurement techniques from leading phrenologists, we have mapped the scrotum to a degree of precision that enables us to detect and predict modes of behaviour and philosophy which should prove invaluable at both the individual and societal levels. A debt of gratitude is owed to our stalwart field researchers who displayed exemplary fortitude and perseverance in collecting data. Some subjects were highly intransigent, requiring our field researchers to employ advanced wrestling holds to keep the subject in place for the two to three hours required for a complete interview and scrotal mapping. Others offered to pay to participate in the study for reasons which remain unclear to us."
Scrotum readings became the vogue of Paris and London in the 1930s. The economic and social unrest of the inter-war years left many with a profound sense of uncertainty from which they sought refuge in the scrotum reading parlours which flourished in the period. Often promoted under such unlikely names as "Personal Prognosticatory Services" or "Greek Readings," such parlours drew on the Bramsbury Principles but often with a twinge of orientalism reminiscent of the practice's gypsy forebears. In his practice journals, Dr. Horatio Wengle describes the clientele of his parlour:
"A more varied collection of characters I have never seen. Men of all walks of life would burst through my parlour door with questions of finance or love or destiny. Some were so desperate that they would scarcely wait for the door to close before whipping out their parts and asking whether this or that wrinkle meant they should invest in lumber. Others still would thrust some very sickly looking sacs under my lens, the most pertinent prognostication I could give them being to stop hanging around the transvestites in Soho. But the clientele was largely looking for solace rather than answers. Scrotum reading...it's not a science."
Look out for part II of this series: "Scrotum Reading and Nuclear Strategy: the Post-War Period."
July 1, 2010
C is for Crosby, Sidney Crosby, who is a national hero, although I have it on good authority that he's a premature ejaculator.
A is for Afghanistan, where unfortunately some excellent Canadians go to be killed by people who mistake them for Americans. Being mistaken for an American is a leading cause of death for Canadians everywhere.
N is for Nunavut, which is a northern territory where many of the real Canadians live. Let's be honest; they were here first.
A is for America, the country just south of Canada, whose proximity we profit from greatly, but who often makes us feel like the fat chick at the dance.
D is for Dion, Celine Dion. You could be in a dingy karaoke bar on a rice paddy in the Mekong Delta surrounded by pleasant, yet illiterate, drunk, and horny farmers, and if they find out you're Canadian you will be made to get up and sing "My Heart Will Go On" loudly and passionately while they mouth the lyrics along with you and weep silently.
A, finally, if for aplomb, which is a thinky, college kid word I heard a British soccer commentator use that means self-possessed and unflappably poised, but it applies to Canadians, because it takes character to live in a country like this, and, at the end of the day, you always want Canadians at the party. Happy Canada Day.
June 23, 2010
1. You are ahead of me in line at the gelato shoppe. There is only one server working. You have questions regarding the difference between the espresso and the mocha. You sample both. You then decide that you're actually in the mood for something fruitier and taste-test the entire citrus section. You stare in the case, looking back again at the espresso. You do not get the opportunity to order however, because I present you with a red card.
2. You are my dentist. I arrive at your office before you do. I wait another fifteen minutes while you turn on the lights and send some e-mails. In the middle of the examination, the phone rings. You answer it and have a seven minute conversation with your mechanic. You ask me if I have insurance. I show you a red card.
3. Dinner at a mutual friend's birthday. You are seated across from me. This is the first time we are meeting. You tell me and the guy beside you about how Ferrari is no longer making manual transmission cars. You follow it up with a story about how you drove a Ferrari once and it was really awesome. I respond with a red card.
4. It is 5 am. I am asleep. You are the fire alarm. Despite the apparent lack of fire or smoke, you begin to emit a sharp beeping noise which wakes me up. I get up to turn you off, only for you to resume beeping a few seconds later. I decide that there must actually be a fire. I dress and descend from the top floor of my building down the fire escape. The doorman tells me that there is no fire. I return to my apartment and give you a red card.
5. You are standing with some of your friends in line to see "The A-Team." I am passing by wearing a pair of daring man-capri pants. You yell out the word "faggot." I keep walking. You laugh with your friends and enter the theatre. You take your seats. I am also in the theatre dressed in a stolen usher's uniform. I shine a light in your face and show you a red card.
6. You are the proprietor of an organic vegetable store near my apartment. I purchase a small box of raspberries. After a day in my fridge, the raspberries turn moldy. I return to your store the next day, close the door behind me and hang up the "Closed" sign. I jump over the counter and subdue your with a chloroform-soaked rag. When you regain consciousness, you are tied to a chair in the basement of your store. I am there with the moldy raspberries. I force feed them to you while a television shows live footage of your daughter playing at school. You beg for mercy. I give you a red card.
7. We have been dating for six months. I have met your parents and you have met mine. On the walk home from your cousin's birthday party, you tell me that you don't think that our relationship is moving in a positive direction. I tell you that it can move in any direction we want so long as we keep open lines of communication. You say that you don't think that will make a difference because people don't change. You also say that you've been seeing someone else. I fall over and start weeping and gagging. You tell me to stop. I tell you not to do this. You walk away. I reach into my pocket, throw the engagement ring into the street, and show you a red card.
June 21, 2010
Love is not a destination. It is a journey.
It is a journey filled with highs and lows, laughter and tears.
Love is knowing that someone will always be there with you,
That your spirit will never be lonely.
Love is a beautiful ocean
Whose depth can only be known by diving deep into it.
That's what love is.
Love is a majestic snow-capped mountain,
Love is a majestic snow-capped mountain,
Glistening like a jewel swaddled in rainbows.
Love is a fire that burns with a passion
Of lust and fear.
Love is a treehouse filled with hopes
And homosexual experimentation when you were ten years old.
That's what love is.
Love is everywhere.
Love is everywhere.
But it's not in the trunk of my car, because that's where I keep every stick of deodorant I've ever used.
Love is a long, complicated riddle,
The answer to which is inside the prostitute's stomach.
Love is a puzzle
That reveals a picture of a cartoon ostrich vomiting on you.
That's what love is.
Love is that old pair of jeans you will never throw out
That's what love is.
Love is that old pair of jeans you will never throw out
Because you pulled them off a dead carny.
Love is a river flowing to a mystic land
Where they will never, ever find the body.
Love is a mirror for your soul
Which reflects your own blackness back at you, as if you had created a beam capable of projecting pure darkness where there was once light and drowning all things pure in a sickly pool of despair, cutting swaths of misery through a birthday sky.
That's what love is.
Love is a wolf
Love is a wolf
That howls at the moons of Mars in the year 2392 when we equip the Earth with a planetary rocket system to escape the Sun's gravitational pull and travel the universe looking for alien pussy.
Love is a carousel of wax horses made to look like dead presidents
That turn and bob to the sounds of Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam.
Love is the smile of a child
Who is not a child at all but a shaved autistic monkey.
That's what love is.
June 17, 2010
"Football is a game of freedom, vision and feelings. Football makes me happy." César Luis Menotti- former coach of Argentine national team
I hate this. I hate this so much. I can't believe I can still feel this way after all these years. You would think I would get used to it. My father was an accountant. He told me he didn't like it very much but he did it and after a while he just got used to it. But when my father messed up someone's taxes he didn't have to hear the groan of 60,000 people and find his car pooped on in the parking lot. Because that's what's I'm going to have to deal with if I even let a single goal in. How did I get stuck playing for a team whose fans express themselves through pooping? They're animals! I hate it here.
Any other position. ANY other position and I would be happier. Look at Gary on defense over there. He's dribbling the ball, passing it around with the other guys. They all look so happy. Fuck them. When I try to join in with the team practice, coach screams at me to get back to my net and practice my dives. Practice my dives! Throwing-yourself-on-the-
And I know the rest of the team hates me. It's because I yell at them and they resent it. Of course I yell at them. Look at the size of this net. It's like the side of barn. If the other guys don't cover the offense it's a shooting gallery. But really I yell at them because I hate them too. I hate them so much. Each of our forwards has their own brand of vodka. One of our midfielders had a street named after him last year. I can't get a table at Denny's on a Friday night without a reservation. Oh God I hate them.
I should quit. I should quit right now. That would show them. Then where would they be? They'd put the other guy in and I'm pretty sure he's blind in one eye. I've seen him take a left turn out of the stadium parking lot and hit a woman on a scooter and just drive off. You don't want that in net. Look at him. He's having a great time on the bench. Yeah sure, you need the hot 23 year old physiotherapist to stretch you out so you don't pull something while you scratch your ass. Yeah, give me the thumbs up. Your support means everything to me.
Now the referee wants to talk to me. This isn't a boxing match. I don't care how you're going to run the game. You're a recess monitor paid to keep these idiots in line. It's not complicated. Why is he showing me the red and yellow cards? It's like he's showing me pictures of his kids. No, I do not want to inspect the ball. I'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with it when it's being kicked at my head. I can't believe you're wasting my time with this. Just get up there and let's get this nightmare over with.
I should have gone to law school. My brother Keith is a lawyer. He constantly tells me how jealous he is of me. Really Keith? I was kicked in the balls seventeen times last season. How do keep track? Because the team has a urologist on the payroll just to deal with me and he tells me that one more kick could send my right testicle into my abdomen. I don't need that, Keith. You complain about your kids? I'm pretty sure I'm sterile.
Okay, here we go. Focus now. Oh crap, listen to the crowd. You know one of those cretins can't wait to leave a hot turd on your car. This is my life: working to avoid being shit on. Here they come. Oh God, it's Whatshisname! He has one of those one word names. You'd think I'd remember it. He's dating that Italian model-actress chick. The one with the everything. I would give up my kidneys just to smell her hair. I tried to talk to her at that benefit thing last year but she thought I was a waiter and asked me to get her a drink. Then other people started giving me their drink orders. I spent the night running around with a tray of cocktails. Is his name Fanta? No, that's insane.
What the hell is Gary doing? Fanta is getting around him. Gary, you're killing me! Okay, he's going to shoot. Pick a side. This is what all that throwing-yourself-on-the-
June 12, 2010
1. What is a bed bug?
A bed bug is a small nocturnal insect which feeds on the blood of humans and other warm-blooded hosts. They are a reddish-brown colour and their shape is flat and oval. Their fangs induce numbness in the area they're feeding on, so you might not be able to detect them until it's too late.
2. What do you mean "until it's too late"?
This happens pretty rarely and it's barely worth mentioning, but you should probably still know that there have been some reported cases -- again not that many -- of urethral burrowing in some hosts.
3. What the hell is that?
It's exactly what it sounds like.
4. It sounds like a bed bug is going to burrow into my penis hole. Is that what you mean?
No that's not what I mean.
5. Oh thank God.
They travel in packs, so it won't be a single one. Probably five or six.
6. Jesus Christ! What am I supposed to do?
Just calm down. I knew I shouldn't have told you. Like I said, this barely ever happens. The only people who get "dick divers" are those who get them from used Banlon pants.
7. "Dick divers"?! Is that supposed to be cute?!
I also call them "Charles Bronsons."
8. I just bought a pair of Banlon pants last week! What happens if they get in there?
Okay, you have to promise not to freak out, but your penis is going to grow three to four inches.
You promised you wouldn't freak out.
11. Oh, I'm sorry if I don't retain my composure as I find out my dick is going to blow up! What can I do to stop this?
Alright, this worked for a friend of mine, but no guarantees. Bed bugs are easily irritated by certain chemicals. What you want to do is take a condom and fill the reservoir tip with dry chili pepper seeds and put it on. I call it the "Charles Bronson."
12. I thought the bed begs were called Charles Bronsons?
Yeah, but that's Charles Bronson from The Great Escape. This is Charles Bronson from Once Upon a Time in the West.
13. When does Charles Bronson put on chili-filled condom in Once Upon a Time in the West?
He doesn't do it in the movie. He put one on before every take. That's how he got into character. It's like Marlon Brando with the cotton balls in The Godfather.
14. That's the most retarded thing I've ever heard...but will it keep my dick from exploding?
15. Fine. When is this recital supposed to be over?
I don't know. Maybe another twenty minutes.
16. Which one's your daughter?
The one at the end of the line without a tutu. We forgot it this morning at home. She almost refused to go on.
17. Kids. What are you going to do, right?
Yeah, but these are the moments we'll really cherish.
June 8, 2010
1. Free daily screenings of Sex and the City II
2. Liberal distribution of "time-outs"
4. Free full-relief street masseuses
5. Deployment of student loan officers
6. General Tao Chicken cannon
June 3, 2010
June 1- Landed in Kampala at 4 am. I was so excited that I didn't notice that the oppressive heat has mixed with my airport bathroom version of Tom Ford's Tuscan Leather to create a wet, crotch stank. No matter; the only stank I'd be smelling for the next six weeks is sweet gorilla stank. Wait, will that sound weird when I read it back later?
June 4- After procuring the necessary permits and sherpas (is that right?), we took a bush plane into the national park where we left Curtis ten years ago. He would be twelve years old now, if poachers haven't killed him for his hands to sell as souvenirs. It's so cruel. It would break my heart to think that the baby gorilla I bought on eBay would come all this way just to be killed. I dearly hope we find him.
June 6- We've set up camp which the guides (I was told that "sherpas" is definitely the wrong term) have dubbed "The Cracker Barrel" which I found surprisingly witty for a group of illiterate ex-mercenary jungle guides. Last night, we watched "White Man's Burden" starring John Travolta and Harry Belafonte. They said it was their favourite movie. Mine is still "Mr. Bean's Vacation."
June 8- Mixed day today. Good news: we found Curtis! We were trekking in the jungle for just over two hours when suddenly a big silverback jumped into our path and began beating the ground. We all did what the guides told us to do when confronted by a gorilla which is to pretend to talk on your cellphone. As I had an imaginary conversation with my credit card company, my eyes caught the gorilla's. There was instant recognition. It was Curtis.
The bad news: Turns out Curtis is kind of a dick. When we recognized each other, he knuckled over and extended his hand for a shake, which he quickly withdrew and ran through his hair when I reached out for it. He certainly did not learn that from me. He then drew himself up on his hind legs and began to do some sort of impression of me, holding his hands up to his eyes like glasses and making surprisingly accurate weeping noises. The guides were very happy and joined in.
This pleased Curtis, who then grabbed a banana from one of the guides and began fellating it and pointing at me, still making the weeping noises. Gorilla laughter used to be one of my favourite sounds, but Curtis' had a mocking tone that I did not like. Hurt, I returned to the Cracker Barrel without the guides who told me they preferred to hang out with Curtis.
June 9- Woke up this morning to the sound of screaming laughter. I looked out of my tent to see that the guides had made a makeshift stage in the middle of camp and were re-enacting scenes from "White Man's Burden." And there was Curtis. Although he didn't stick to the script, it looked like he was doing a fair job of abusing the John Travolta character, played by a leaf-stuffed dummy wearing my clothes. Predictably, the scene progressed with the standard slate of mocking impressions and concluded with Curtis making angry love to the dummy's face. The guides applauded wildly. I returned to my tent where I remained for the rest of the day.
June 10- Woke up this morning with Curtis in my tent. He was going through my bags and laughing at my shirts. He was enjoying this immensely until he came upon the stuffed bear that he had played with as a baby. He touched it gingerly and sniffed it. He began to make cooing sounds. I turned on the camera just in time to catch him place it on the ground and shit on it. He then tried to make love to my face. I left that morning.
May 27, 2010
Chris told me that you were in town. Unfortunately I'm going out of town tomorrow so I won't be able to see you. But I thought I would still take the opportunity to tell you that my tennis racquet is your penis.
I don't know why I didn't tell you this before. You would think that you would be the first person I would tell. But you weren't. I told my mother first. She called last week and I told her then. After I told her, she asked who you were and why your penis was my tennis racquet. I told her that you were a friend of Chris' and that you had stayed on my couch one time but declined to use my pocket vagina. This helped because she knows who Chris is, but she didn't know what a pocket vagina was so I had to spend some time explaining that to her. Once she said she understood what a pocket vagina was, she repeated the second part of her question, which was why my tennis racquet was your penis. I told her that I was playing tennis one day and I looked down and said to myself "Holy cow, my tennis racquet is Scott's penis." And it's been that way ever since. My mother told me that the story didn't really explain why your penis is my tennis racquet, but she let it go because although she said she understood the pocket vagina thing I could tell that she really didn't and she wanted to change to subject.
You should know that I take very good care of my tennis racquet/your penis. There is a special case for it and everything. I'm very careful with it because I've had it since I was fifteen and I really like playing with it. That isn't some sort of masturbation pun; only you can masturbate with my your penis/my tennis racquet. I use it to play tennis. You use it for penis stuff. I think that's the way it works.
I'm actually kind of surprised that you haven't contacted me first telling me that your penis is my tennis racquet. I mean, you live with your penis/my tennis racquet every day. I only play tennis in the summer and fall because I play squash in the winter. To be clear, your penis is not my squash racquet. It's my tennis racquet. I just wanted you to know that.
Did it never occur to you say something? Or did you not realize? I can understand that; I only realized my tennis racquet was your penis a few weeks ago. Actually, I should have assumed that you didn't realize it, otherwise you probably would have contacted me. I like to think that we have the kind of relationship where you can do that now without Chris necessarily being the middle man. I'm not saying that we're really close, but I hoped that if you were showering one day or looking at yourself in the mirror and you realized "Wait a second...my penis is S.H.'s tennis racquet!" that you could e-mail me to tell me. That's what I'm doing with you now and I feel pretty comfortable with it.
To be honest, I'm not really doing anything differently now that I know that my tennis racquet is your penis. It's like finding out your birthday is actually a day later than the day you've been lead to believe. If you told me my birthday was on October 23 instead of October 22, I would realize that something was different, but I couldn't really tell you what specifically. I'm the same person with the same name and the same life, except now my birthday is on October 23. It really wouldn't have an impact on me in any substantial way. It's the same thing with my discovering that my tennis racquet is your penis.
Similarly, I don't know if my tennis racquet being your penis should change your life either. Or at least I don't think you should let it change the way you think about things. You're obviously a lot closer to your penis/my tennis racquet that I am to my tennis racquet/your penis so I can see the temptation to let this skew things. But, again, I don't think it should. Really, nothing is different. So don't worry, just embrace it as the way things are. So much impacts our day to day lives; it seems that any new information we receive forces us to change something. You could really look at this as something that doesn't change anything. I think there's comfort in that.
Again, sorry I can't see you this weekend. I hope you're doing really well and that school and work are moving along nicely. Are you going to bring your girlfriend here at some point? I'll bet she's lovely.
All the best,
May 24, 2010
Good morning gorgeous. Shhhh...don't say anything. I just want to look at you. God, you're so beautiful. I know you're probably thinking "Who is this guy?" right? I know I sound cheesy, but I could lie here just watching you sleep. I feel like the luckiest gigolo in the world right now.
Why are you getting up? I thought we could listen to the morning news in bed and read the newspaper together. I'm sorry I said I wanted to watch you sleep. It's creepy. I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry. Please come back to bed. Sometimes I don't know when to stop. Please.
I don't understand...what do mean it's not the sleep-watching thing? Pardon? Yes, I know I'm a gigolo. You don't have to yell at me. I can yell too. YOU'RE AN ACCOUNTANT! See? See how silly it sounds when someone else does it to you?
I thought you knew what I did for a living. You even asked me last night. Remember when you asked me what my job was and I said I was like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy and you said that you hadn't seen it so I explained the plot to you but I got confused and explained the plot to Deliverance instead? Maybe that was my fault, but all it shows is you were fine going to bed with someone you thought was a professional hillbilly rapist. That's not even a job!
I can't believe you would be so close-minded about this. When your friend Melissa found my ad in the back of that magazine and called me to set up a party for you, she told me you were a really warm person who enjoyed meeting new people. Yes, I found Melissa to be a bitch too, but I had to take her at her word. Was that just some throw-away line from your personal ad? Because I believed it. Once Melissa's cheque cleared, I was ready to meet someone who would be ready for a new experience.
I don't know why you want to rush out. This is your house. If this were my place and I had just discovered that I had had unprotected intercourse with a professional sex worker, I would ask THEM to leave.
Oh, you do want me to leave...Well fine, I'll go. Jesus, you know why I hate this job sometimes? It's because of people like you. These situations make me regret leaving legal practice. At least then when I fucked people I could just send them my bill and close the file.
Hey, there's that smile! Come on. Come back here gorgeous lady. That's it. Yes, I do think you're gorgeous. And yes Melissa did cover a morning party. No, I don't know why they call it a party.
Hey, I just came up with a nickname for us. Do you want to hear it?
May 19, 2010
1. I like sitting in Starbucks listening to “I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tiffany on my earphones, knowing that not a single person in the place knows how weird and fruity I am.
2. When my roommates are out and I have the place to myself, I put on my cat costume and play with a ball of yarn. Then I eat the houseplants until I throw up.
3. One of my secret pleasures is going to the market around the corner from my apartment and sticking my hand deep into the barrels of dried beans, feeling each individual one tickle my palm, then drawing out a handful and throwing them at children.
4. Sometimes I’ll bake a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies and eat them all myself. Then I’ll go masturbate in front of my neighbour’s dog.
5. I am crazy for old tins. I can spend hours in antique stores looking for them. I love the rush of finding the perfect tin, slipping it under my coat, and walking out calmly.
6. I love squirrels. My favourite weekend pastime is going out in the afternoon and watching them fall over drunk asking people for money and yelling at nothing. I especially like it when they find something interesting in the trash; they get so excited and ferret it away in their layers of heavy coats. My friends say that what I think are squirrels are actually homeless people and that I shouldn’t stare and giggle, but I think that my friends are jerks.
7. I love going to the zoo and re-enacting that scene from “ Express” by pulling up my shirt and showing the monkeys my nipples.
May 17, 2010
The Timberlake- Moves from child star to international sensation to successful producer, but is best known for singing songs about his dick.
H for Heidi- Goes from wholesome young kid to a plastic surgery Hindenburg.
Where's LaBoeuf?- Cuts his teeth in Disney flicks but moves on to more serious roles, has hand bitten off by robot.
That's so Bieber- Gets spot on Cosby Show, bringing cuteness ratings to all-time high, show ends, gets fat.
The McFly- Lands a TV show then some movies, cultivates status, gets Parkinson's.
May 11, 2010
Thy fiery looks betray a rising bile.
Thy whitened fists quiver with muted rage.
Where is the warmth of thy angelic smile
And the placid calm of the knowing sage?
For me that feral night was truest bliss.
Thou opened worlds of untold joy to me.
Mine heart thrilled at the touch of every kiss.
Thou indulged every curiosity.
But much I knew of thine serpent betrayal
And those who had enjoyed thy bed as well.
For those pale, limpid eyes do scarcely veil
Thy whorish heart ripped from the depths of Hell.
So unwise you were in my lens to trust.
Now enjoy the fame of your lies and lust.
May 10, 2010
Like most everything, I would consider my relationship with Mickey Rourke a work in progress. That is, it has never reached a point of satisfaction which would either inspire pride or admit finality. Rather, it rolls and pitches with a seemingly unending rhythm of fear and nausea. But to say that I haven't learned anything would be untrue. Because time spent with Mickey is time measured in lessons, lessons about living truly and fairly, no matter what the consequences.
I first met Mickey late in 2007 at a Starbucks in Philadelphia. As I was sugaring my latte, a burly, fragrant man thrust his coffee in front of me. "Spit in this for me Lola," Mickey said, "That barista has no idea how to make a Mexican mochachino." I obliged, dropping a small bead of saliva into his cup. "Lola! Give it some flavor goffammit!" Alarmed, I snorted deeply and delivered a powerful loogie into his coffee. "That's lesson one, Lola. When someone tells you to spit in their coffee, you'd better give it your all." Blowing on his Mexican mochachino, he walked outside and rejoined the Korean-language walking tour which was waiting for him.
Over a year passed before I saw Mickey again. I was in New York attending a performance of Der Erlkönig with a woman I'd been dating who enjoyed German opera and crying during sex, often at the same time. As the performance began and I attempted to simultaneously console her and keep her from grabbing my crotch, I failed to notice the large figure who had sat down beside me. "Lola, what the hell is wrong with your woman?" Mickey asked. "If she wants to dance with Admiral Bojangles, let her do it!" I would have explained, but we were being enthusiastically shushed by people around us.
As the performance continued, I looked over occasionally to see Mickey furtively eating some sort of kielbasa out of his breast pocket. He caught my eye and offered me some. I declined as I saw that it was not in fact a kielbasa but a tube of cookie dough, not that that made the offer any less or more appealing. Incensed, Mickey pulled me close and whispered through clenched teeth: "Lesson two Lola. Someone offers you a delicious bite of cookie dough at a performance of Der Erlkönig, you take it!" He stared at me for the next two hours, chewing on cookie dough and mouthing the lyrics between bites.
Although these episodes could be considered off-putting, they began to occur with a comfortable regularity. I was in Los Angeles in late 2009 at a book signing for the autobiography of a former member of the Hues Corporation, St-Clair Lee. I had a pressing question about the lyrics to "Rock the Boat" that had been plaguing me for years. I was standing in line, reading the acknowledgment section, when I detected a familiar musk. Mickey had a shopping cart full of the books, pushing it forward with his gut as he thumbed madly through the pages. Adjusting his reading glasses, Mickey said: "St-Clair owed me $500 and told me that in exchange he would include the story about the time we fought Paul Newman over whether The Towering Inferno was a metaphor for apartheid. We thought it was." When I asked him to explain, he gave me a gray stare. Pushing ahead of me, he said "Lola, lesson three: if Paul Newman tells you that The Towering Inferno is not a metaphor for apartheid, then you respect the man's opinion." He then began stacking copies of St-Clair Lee's autobiography on the table in front of the terrified author who was holding $500 in a shaking outstretched hand.
It was not so much the letter of these lessons that struck me but rather their spirit. Mickey knew that spitting in coffee and accepting foodstuffs from strangers were not the sole points of his lessons. Neither was arguing with dead celebrities or frightening esoteric singers from the 1970s. Mickey always knew what I know now; that there is no such thing a clear, coherent morality, but only a series of imperatives drawn from life lessons. And every time he subsequently showed up at one of my family gatherings telling me about the virtues of organic dental floss or sat in on a meeting at my work and whispered a four hour story about his discharge from the Bolivian coast guard to me, I knew that this was him sharing his code. I value those lessons to this day.
May 4, 2010
1. The Miami Heat burn Betty White in effigy to banish the bad luck she brought the team during the disastrous "Golden Girls Night" at the American Airlines Arena in the 1991-1992 playoffs.
2. The Chicago Blackhawks eat deep-dish pizza between the second and third periods of away games.
3. The Boston Celtics have the last living leprechaun held in captivity and shower with it.
4. The Denver Broncos all watch "Stand by Me" together the night before game day.
5. The LA Dodgers only use bats made from the tree that killed Sonny Bono.
6. Every member of the Montreal Canadiens kisses their goalie on the mouth before and after each game.
7. If the New York Knicks are down in the series, they will dig up the corpse of Wilt Chamberlain, dress it uniform, and put in on the bench.
April 29, 2010
Could I have everyone's attention for a second? Thanks. Scott, can we lose the iPod for a second? This won't take long. I appreciate it.
Ok, so we've all gotten to know each other pretty well over the course of the past eighteen hours. We've shared a lot of ideas and feelings. Janice, I really think that you were very brave for telling Kevin how his job is putting distance between the two of you. And Kevin, you need to know how strong you're being right now. It's amazing, You should feel powerful. Be proud. But, despite this, I really would like to refocus the group's attention on the matter at hand, which is that I'm robbing you and holding you hostage in your own home.
I think it's fairly clear at this point that I didn't expect this to take such a personal turn. During the weeks I spent parked down the block from your house, studying your schedules and patterns, I assumed that this would be your standard bash, cash, and dash job. I come to the door and pretend to need to read your meter, you invite me in, I knock out daddy and make mommy tie him up while I use a lot of alarming profanity. The usual stuff. But as I got to know all of you and began to understand some of the very powerful emotions that are floating around in this family, I honestly felt like I had been sent here for a reason. That is, a reason other than binding you with a large amount of duct tape and taking your valuables.
Janice, I can tell by the way you tried to seduce me when we were in the kitchen to lull me into a false sense of confidence that you are truly concerned about your family. But how about directing some of that sensual energy towards your husband? Kevin told me about how you have seemed sexually absent over the past few months just before I plunged his head into the toilet because he wouldn't tell me where the house safe was. Kevin loves you Janice. If he were conscious right now, he would tell you himself. And I'm sure you love him too. But you need to realize that you share a physical bond that needs to be maintained as much as your emotional one.
And Scott and Emily, I know you can sense the tension in your parents marriage, but don't take it out on each other. Emily, do you remember what you said when I told you that I would shoot Scott through the face if you tried to run again? You told me to go ahead and do it. You might have elaborated on that, but I do remember that at that point I stuffed your own socks in your mouth. But I'm sure it would have been much of the same. I don't know if you know this about your brother, Emily, but he is a sensitive soul. He wants to be your friend, but he's worried that if he tries that you'll just shut him down. He doesn't have to say it; his urine-soaked pants say it all.
But Scott, you can't let Emily get to you all the time. She's a teenage girl and she's going to say things just to upset you. But she doesn't mean them. She wants to be your friend too. But if all she ever sees in her brother is a victim who can't even stand up to a man with a high-caliber handgun who keeps on cracking open pills and sniffing them, then she'll keep doing it, I promise you.
I just think that there is too much love here to waste on fighting. You are all unique, beautiful individuals who have been brought together in this family and you need to enjoy it. I know it sounds trite, but life is too short! This experience should have made that painfully obvious. Especially for Kevin, who will probably need his jaw re-set. So just break down the walls and open up to each other! It's not that hard.
Things have gotten really real in here. I'm proud of all of us. I'm going to take your car now and go, but remember what I said. And also remember that if you report this, I will come back and burn this place to the ground. I love all of you.
April 26, 2010
1. I cannot stand waiting in line at the bank. I always look so stupid standing there in my ski mask with my gun.
2. I hate brussel sprouts. I guess it all comes from the time when I was eating brussel sprouts and a clown raped my dog in front of me.
3. I hate the feeling you get when you don't know if the oven's still on. You always end up pulling your head out, checking the dials, and putting it back in again.
4. I hate the albino baboon that visits me every night and poops on my bed. I also hate this new medication.
5. I've grown to really dislike my landlord. He's constantly taking a portion of my grain or housing his knights in my place or sleeping with my girlfriend. When I tell him I'm going to report him to the tenant board, he laughs and calls me a filthy peasant. I really should have read the lease more carefully.
6. I have no tolerance for ninjas. Their entire job is to make you look stupid. "Oh look, you can't see me because I'm hanging from the ceiling. Now I'm disguised as a shrubbery. Oops, I'm hiding between the couch cushions. Now I'm breaking your neck." Jerks.
7. There is nothing worse than hosting parties. Your house is full of people. They're eating your food and using your bathroom. They're asking you if you know how much you're hurting them and how it kills them to see you throwing your life away on this stuff. Your mother starts crying while your father glares at you. No one uses a coaster. It's awful.
April 22, 2010
1. Pittsburgh Penguins- "I do not like this name. This is an ugly, stupid bird that cannot fly. If I were an eagle, flying majestically above the ice, my wings golden and proud, I would fly down and devour these stupid creatures. This is not the name for an athletic team; it is the name for a children's comfort toy."
2. Atlanta Braves- "Bravery is very important in competition. You will only achieve victory if your courage is greater than your opponent's. But you tell me that this is also a name for native peoples. I do not like this. Do not make me explain why."
3. Carolina Hurricanes- "The power of the natural world is very impressive. But it is impossible for man to harness it and the suggestion that he can is hubris. This name insults me. Do not bring it up again."
4. Toronto Raptors- "I have read about these creatures and seen them in made-up films. Their speed and ferocity make them admirable predators. But they no longer exist. They were not strong enough. A team named after them will only know defeat."
5. Phoenix Coyotes- "This animal feasts on the leavings of stronger, prouder creatures. It lurks in the darkness while the victors of the contest bask in the light of victory. To give this name to your athletes makes no sense. You might as well call them 'The Weak, Smelly, Filth Dogs of Phoenix'. But such a name would make even less sense. And it would not fit on the jersey."
6. New Jersey Devils- "Your blasphemy is insulting."
7. Orlando Magic- "Please leave. Now."