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.