Cakes and Ale

2003-12-16T21:38:00.000-08:00

The Funny Thing About War Is....

Many of the major daily newspapers have been running headlines like this since Sunday:

U.S. FINALLY FINDS SADDAM'S HOLE

(give it a sec.... it'll come to you...)

The reports that follow then take on whole new hilariously unintended meaning, especially that ubiquitous sound bite from those US soldiers who found him - "We threatened to throw a gernade in there - right into his hole. " Or, an ABC News report the other night, which started something like this: "Saddam's hole consisted of about six feet of dirt and darkness."

Man, that's some hole.

2003-12-02T08:29:00.000-08:00

Worldwide Exclusive!!

Cakes and Ale has been able to secure a world exclusive. To see the first confirmed picture of Michael Jackson's accuser - click here

2003-11-25T09:39:00.000-08:00

Play-By-Fucking-Play

I think it would be hilarious if sports announcers were allowed to curse during the play-by-play and colour commentary. It would make the broadcasts more interesting. Observe:

Hockey - “Here’s the face off, and Lemieux wins it – wow, I tell ya, Bob, he made Yzerman look like his bitch on that play didn’t he? Kotlsov back to Lemieux and the Penguins are in the Wings zone. Lemieux plays it off the boards, out to the point to Bergevin. Bergevin over to Berehowski. Oooohh, Berehowski fans on it and the puck clears the zone. Big dumb fucker just had the puck bounce right over his stick – how about that. The Wings pick it up in the neutral zone – here’s Zetterberg streaking down the wing – what a fast son of a bitch he is. He tees it up from the top of the face off circle but Ooooohhh!!! What a magnificent save by Marc-Andre Fleury. The youngster came out to cut down the angle and snatched that puck with his trapper as if to say, ‘Not today, you wiley Russian cocksucker!’”

Football – “The Patriots set up in the I-formation. Brady is under center. The Dolphins align in their familiar 4-3 defense. The linebackers Thomas and Seau now take a step toward the line. The play clock ticks under ten, Brady’s got to hurry if he’s going to call an audible. The tight end Fauria in motion. Here’s the snap – Brady drops back and the offensive line stuffs Junior Seau on the blitz. Brady, with time now, launches a deep bomb… Troy Brown near the sidelines…. will he ….Yes! MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Jesus H. Christ – what a catch by Troy Brown, taking the Patriots all the way down to the Dolphins’ 12-yard line. He just reached out and pulled that ball in with one hand, as if to say to the cornerback, ‘If ya think that was good, you should see me handle yo’ mama’s titties.’ Incredible catch.”

Baseball – “Tanyon Sturtze is on the mound for the Devil Rays to face Toronto today. Sturtze has been terrible his past three outings – like a boil on the hairy nut-sack that is this D-Rays pitching staff. Frank Catallanatto steps in to lead things off for Toronto. Funny how this tiny white man has a name like a big hairy wop in a pizza shop. Anyway, the first pitch is high – ball one. Sturtze takes a walk around the mound, bouncing the rosin bag in his hand like a fucking hackey-sack. Man, this guy works slowly, doesn’t he? He’s like an elderly woman trying to have a bowel movement the day after she forgot to take her prune juice. He looks in for the sign. The catcher, Toby Hall seems to be indicating curve ball – but I tell you, Bob, he may as well be wiggling his fingers around in a miniature knuckle ballet, because we know this piece of shit isn’t going to throw anywhere near the plate.”

2003-11-24T07:16:00.000-08:00

Cottonelle Reconnaissance Commission Report #2
By Battalion Commander R. Swipe

We have lost track of time and are unsure of the date of this transmission. It has been a hellish span of days and weeks since we were transported from shelf three of aisle five of the SuperValu grocery store. Our captor rounded us up in plastic coverings and carried us from her “Cavalier” transport vehicle into what appears to be some sort of residential abode. We had short frantic debriefing sessions with General Oeuf to ascertain our status as prisoners and formulate a plan of counterattack.

Upon being forcefully carried into the dwelling, we were placed on a surface of ceramic tile before a giant torture chamber emblazoned with the hellish moniker “Frigidaire”. We watched in horror as items were systematically removed from the plastic restraining devices and placed into the freezing chamber of death. I could hear General Oeuf bravely rallying his troops until the bitter end – even as his cries died out in the cavernous coldness within. For the second time in less than an hour, the brave men of my battalion began saying their goodbyes and bracing themselves for the icy oblivion that awaited. And again for the second time, our destruction was averted. We were carried away from the sleek white torture chest and placed inside an airtight deprivation chamber. Our continued reconnaissance revealed that our captor refers to this deprivation chamber as “The Linen Closet”.

Even the sound of our voices was being muffled by stacks and stacks of soundproofing equipment that our captors refer to as “Towels”. Escape seemed impossible. Using age-old methods of military intelligence, I deduced that this sensory deprivation was just another torture tactic. Anticipating the intense interrogation that would certainly follow, I ordered my men to disavow all knowledge of any pertinent details and not to fold under questioning. I dared not breathe a word to the men about it – but I expected gruelling torture sessions in order to extract any information we may have had about our production in the paper plant.

It’s hard to say how much time passed. Perhaps a few days. The door opened and the light shone down on us with excruciating brightness. The enemy’s red nail-polished fingers grasped the entire battalion and tried to penetrate our cellophane shield. I assumed the command position, and ordered half my troops to advance in the opposite direction, tightening our protective shield and making it difficult to grip. I then ordered the second unit to flank the position of the evil red claw by means of counterattack, but, alas, before those brave men could get into position the red claw breached the cellophane, ripped open the protective shield, and wiped out the entire second unit in one fell swoop.

As quickly as it opened, the door closed again, and we were left alone in the darkness, with only the memories of our fallen comrades and the quiet sobbing of those men lucky enough to have survived. I tore off some pieces of myself to write letters home to their families. This is the most difficult part of the job.

I took a moment to regain my composure and then addressed the troops. We were under attack, I told them, by a formidable enemy of untold evil, whom we henceforth would refer to only as the Red Claw. But the brave men of this Cottonelle Battalion would not roll over and die without a fight. I told them of my plan, and the operation was set.

Reconnaissance had revealed that our second unit was being held prisoner in a room directly across the hall from the Linen Closet. The room contained a large porcelain vat surrounded by a plastic curtain, from which the Red Claw would emerge with wet hair and different clothing, usually smelling of flowers. Before most visits to the Porcelain Vat Parlour, the Red Claw would reach into our deprivation chamber and take away some of the soundproofing material from their stacks on the shelf. My plan was to jump from our position on our shelf onto the floor, roll into the Porcelain Vat Parlour, and gather intelligence about the status our PoW’s. There were risks inherent in the plan – sure. But I am never comfortable asking my men to do something I wouldn’t want to do myself. That, and I always wanted to try paratrooping.

We could hear Red Claw rummaging in the Porcelain Vat Parlour. We knew in a moment the shiny red fingernails would clasp some more soundproofing. The door opened. It was time. With the assistance of the rest of the first unit, I rappelled down the inside of the closet door just before it closed again, and my momentum carried me rolling all the way into the depths of the Procelain Vat Parlour, coming to a stop next to the Porcelain Vat itself.

I surveyed the territory. There was a large Porcelain Easy Chair of some kind next to the Porcelain Vat. Then I saw them – three men from the second unit were standing in a line on the back of the Porcelain Easy Chair. They were white as ghosts. They were afraid to speak, though I was certain they saw me me. Finally, I made eye contact with the bloodshot eyes of the unit’s second-in-command. He shifted his gaze to the left and nodded his head slightly. I followed his line of sight and encountered what will certainly be one of the most gruesome visions ever to haunt my memory. There, impaled on a spring-loaded horizontal plastic stake, was the withered remains of Unit Commander H.M. Roid.

His body had been worn down to half its natural size. The desperate look in the eyes of those brave men standing on the back of the Porcelain Easy Chair told me that this room of shiny cold horrors was the end of the line for the men of our battalion, as long as we remained under the tyrannous clasp of the Red Claw.

Report #3 is forthcoming.

2003-11-07T11:23:00.000-08:00

Antiques Road Show – Cape Breton Edition

Hello and welcome to Antiques Road Show. Today we’re coming to you from the concourse of Centre200 on beautiful Cape Breton Island – a place of rich history with many treasures waiting to be uncovered.

(Our expert is a white haired British man wearing bifocals and a bowtie speaking in an upper-crust Victorian accent. Our guest is a middle-aged man wearing a blue Mira River t-shirt, belly slightly exposed, a red mesh building supply store cap tilted back on his head, and rubber boots, speaking as though he hit his head on the rudder when he fell off the boat. They are sitting at a display table, between them is a dirty old beer bottle.)

Expert: I say, what have we he-ah?

Guest: Dis here’s a bough-ul I foun’ in na back yard when I’s mowin na grass. Wha’s it wort?

Expert: (handling the bottle) Hmmm, I see… well, there ahh several things which may assist us in detahmining the value of this pahticulah item. You found this bottle in youah back yahd, you say?

Guest: Yeah, roigt in na back yard. We had de ol’ Chevette up on blocks dere for a while, an’ nen I got Spiffy d’ haul ‘er away, cuz Spiffy got a truck, eh, wit a winch onto ‘er. Anyways, after da car was moved, first time I’s mowin na grass after dat I foun’ na bough-ul. Tought it moight be wort somp’m, so I brings ‘er ‘ere.

Expert: I see… interesting that it was found out of doors. In fact, I had already deduced that it must have been exposed to the elements foah some time. You see heah (pointing) theah’s a rahthah pronounced, uh, type of scuff mahk heah, neah the bottom of the bottle, you see?

Guest: Das where da mower hit ‘er, prolly.

Expert: Yes, probably so. And heah (pointing again) we can see remnants of wheah a lable once would have been. In fact, neah the top heah, we can almost make out the faded colours of the original label. And that, fortunately, is of great assistance in determining the period from which this bottle has come…

Guest: So whuh’s it wort?

Expert: Well, as I was saying, determining the period goes a long way towahd determining the value of the item, as the age of the antique, often but not always, is correlated to its value.

Guest: Dat means it wort a lot, eh?

Expert: Hmmm – heah, let me show you how I pinpointed this piece. (turning the bottle upside down) you see, heah, on the bottom of the bottle, theah ah smallish stamp marks right in the texture of glass – you see? These numbers and letters are a code, which tell us what company produced the bottle, the factory in which it was produced, and even provide a general idea of when it was produced.

Guest: (getting excited) Ooohhh cripes! Wha’s she wooooort?

Expert: Well, now, these stampings pointed me in the direction, but I tell you, it was these faded colours on the partial label heah which confirmed my suspicions.

Guest: Wha’ diz it? Wha’ diz it??!

Expert: This is, in fact, an empty bottle of Highland Classic beah – an ale brewed heah in Cape Breton by the now-defunct Highland Breweries during the mid-1980s.

Guest: (still excited) OOOOOHHHH MY CHRIST ALMIGHTY!!!!! I’m rich!! Am I rich?! Dat muss’ be from na summer before my brudder Charlie moved away t’ Chronno!! He loved dat stuff! Am I rich, or whuh?!!!

Expert: Actually, no. Thousands of such bottles were produced at the time. Some people still have unopened bottles, or in fact, unopened cases of Highland Classic saved as souvineahs. In mint condition, that is to say, without this scuff mark and chunk of glass removed by your lawnmower blade, this bottle would be worth about ten cents at your local recycling depot.

Guest: (defeated) ohhhh frig

Expert: But in it’s current state, you may only get half that amount.

(A musical *bbrrrriiiiinnnngg* as “Beer bottle - $0.05” appears at the bottom of the screen.)

Guest: What if I goes back an’ finds da cap off it?

2003-10-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

Cottonelle Reconnaissance Commission Report #1
By Battalion Commander R. Swipe

At approximately 0800 hours on October 1, 2003, Cottonelle Battalion No. 2 was removed from a shipping crate and placed on shelf three of aisle five of the SuperValu grocery store by a mysterious figure whose name tag revealed him to be “Allan”.

I immediately organized my 24-unit battalion into four six-member units. The Alpha Unit, positioned at the front of our cellophane wrapping, was responsible for all in-store reconnaissance. Commander H.M. Roid and his squad shortly reported that other battalions on neighbouring shelves were being removed and placed into large metal cages which were wheeled around, usually by females with several children in tow, but occasionally also by single men who had placed nothing but frozen pizza into their wheeled cages.

At approximately 1430 hours on October 4, 2003, the enemy struck. The Alpha Unit had just been completing a long watch and had begun transitioning the watch duties to the Beta Unit. While our defenses were down, one swift swipe of a middle-aged bingo-dabbed hand swept up our entire battalion and thrust us into the wheeled cage. Immediately, the pain was unbearable – my back, and the backs of the entire Delta Unit in the fourth squadron were being frozen by the large yellow box we had been placed upon, stealthily labeled only with the single word, “Popsicles”.

Shelves whizzed by us as the enemy pushed our cage around the store. I immediately placed the three Unit Commanders and myself on sharp lookout in order to ascertain our possible destination. Almost immediately, reports came flooding in that other Cottonelle Battalions were passing by us in other wheeled cages. Indeed, I myself came within mere feet of another caged battalion while each of our enemies endeavoured to capture some fruit. In an attempt to raise morale, I yelled over to the other courageous battalion, its row after row of cottony white bravery being crushed by tin cans and kitty litter. Alas, my battle cry went unheard, as our enemy returned and wheeled us sharply toward the produce section.

After a torturous journey circumnavigating the store several times, alas, it appeared we would meet our fate. Just as 1500 hours approached, we were taken to what we first understood to be execution docks. Row after row of teenaged girls, dressed ominously in dark execution smocks had each prisoner sent to her on a conveyor belt, where she picked it up and then dropped it out of sight – presumably into some fiery oblivion where we would all meet our doom. It was our turn. Our bingo-dabbed enemy tossed the entire battalion onto the conveyor belt. All the boys in the battalion started saying their goodbyes. We relived all our fond memories together – from the paper plant to the beginning of the end when the light of day revealed “Allan’s” pock-marked face.

The would-be executioner inexplicably slapped a large sticker on top of the battalion’s cellophane shield, and then a brilliant flash of red light passed over us, and we thought for sure we were entering that fiery oblivion we had foreseen just moments before.

But no! Instead we were then placed on a series of rollers and placed into a second wheeled cage. The battalion began rejoicing that we had not met our doom – but immediately I understood what was happening. This was merely the prisoner processing center – our battalion had been subjected to a retinal scan and then labeled for identification in the prison, which surely must be where we were going next.

My thoughts were confirmed when our enemy then wheeled the second cage out of the store, and over a pavement wasteland, where many ominous-looking transport vehicles were waiting to take us to whatever god-forsaken fate awaited us. Indeed, we came to a stop behind a blue transport vehicle marked “Cavalier”. Our enemy produced a sort of skeleton key which successfully opened both the entrance to the vehicle, as well as the rear storage hatch. The use of a single key to perform both functions told me we were dealing with a highly developed and centralized system of intelligence.

We were thrust into the storage hatch along with many other prisoners of various races. Within ten minutes of transit, the “Popsicles”, fellow prisoners we had initially mistaken for enemies, were literally melting with fear. I tried to console them, but not a man in our battalion knew their language. An unfamiliar voice spoke to us from the darkness in a heavy non-Cottonelle accent. He identified himself as General Oeuf, and frantically relayed to me the story of how two of his men literally cracked up when passing over the brilliant red light and being dropped in a large plastic bag.

At the time of this report, it is approximately 1530 hours and I am attempting to organize a resistance to overtake the enemy while in transit to this unknown prison. There are sufficient language barriers, as well as racial and ethnic difficulties that must be overcome if the enemy is to be defeated, particularly between the white and whole wheat loaves of bread.

Report #2 is forthcoming.

End transmission.

2003-09-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

How to Perform Cunnilingus on a Ninety-Year-Old Woman

I can't tell you how many times I've been having a
conversation with my friends and inevitably, the topic
will turn to one of the most important questions
facing young men in their twenties - should the
opportunity present itself, how do I perform
cunnilingus on a ninety-year-old woman?

First comes the wooing. You have to know where to
meet your silver fox, and you have to know how to
convince her to engage in sexual relations. The best
places to meet ninety-year-old women are hospitals and
nursing homes. Unfortunately, you're going to want to
stay away from either of these places. If your
geriatric vixen is hospitalized, chances are she has
some sort of health problem and may not be up for the
rigors of a sustained session of cunnilingus. I know
from experience, it's very embarrassing to hear the
*snap* of a plastic hip juuuuust as you make your
first foray into the labia. Boy, will your face be
red.

On the flip side, nursing homes are notorious for hot
old bags sniffing for some growl. This may be very
tempting, but there are substantial security and
privacy concerns. Again, I know from experience that
it's very embarrassing to look up from your furry
perch on the mons and see some busy-body nurse
adjusting the flow of your lady's I.V. bag.

The best option is simply to volunteer for some sort
of Meals on Wheels program. These ladies are healthy
enough to be self-sufficient and enjoy the privacy of
their own residence. Volunteering in such a
worthwhile program provides a great opportunity to
give something back to the community, while at the
same time creating great odds of burying your face in
the crotch of someone's great-grandmother.

Phase two - you've met ol' sexy wrinkles and it's time
to get down to business. How do you let her know your
intentions? While she's eating the TV dinner you've
just been kind enough to deliver, offer to rub her
corns, or clean her catheter connection, or set out
the forty-three pills she has to take the next day.
While doing this, set the mood with some music that
will remind her of her youth and make her feel sexy.
Something gentle and rhythmic should do the job - I
recommend the melodious strains of "Medly for a V" by
DJ Quick and Snoop Dogg.

Phase three - you've found your lady, you've made your
intentions known, DJ Quick is crooning about the dick
'em down king, and you're rounding bases faster than
Rickey Henderson on the '82 Yankees. It's now time to
go down on your ninety-year-old woman.

Chances are she's going to be wearing one of those old
women floral-print dresses. You have to decide
whether to take it off entirely, or simply place your
head up under the hem. Decorum may dictate her
leaving the dress on - remember that she will likely
hold personal beliefs from a much simpler time, so be
respectful of how she wants you to go about eating her
gitch.

From her sitting position on an easy chair, position
her legs on an ottoman in front of the chair and bend
her knees slightly. Whether the dress remains on or
is removed, this posture will allow for the most
efficient removal of her adult diaper. Before you
proceed down to Varicose Valley, ask your lady friend
if she is comfortable - can you adjust her Obus Form?
or maybe get her a fresh can of Boost? If she
indicates that she's fine, it's finally time to move
to Phase Four. Congratulations, you've earned it.

Now, if you're a young guy in your twenties, chances
are you haven't given this much thought, which is why
it's such a surprise for many when they discover that
pubic hair also turns white. Don't be put off by this
surprise - use it to your advantage. For example, it
becomes very easy to imagine that you're an old man
with a curly white moustache. Perhaps you could
imagine you're Hume Cronin from Cocoon in some sort of orgy outtake. Use your
imagination!

Finally, should you decide to add some spice by
rubbing granny's nipples while you work downstairs,
remember that the nipples can now be located in the
underarm region (if in a lying position), or just
above the waist (if in a sitting or reclined
position). Avoid the embarrasment of reaching for
where the nipples USED to be - remember, stud, you're
going down on her NOW, not sixty years ago.

Then, when all your fun is over and she's on the verge
of cardio-pulminary failure, thank her for a good time
and take your leave - but conveniently "forget" to
take the plate and cutlery from the Meals on Wheels
program. That way, you have a legitimate excuse to
return the next day. And in the meantime, you can pop
in some Chicklets and deliver the next TV dinner to
the next lucky old woman.

Good luck, gentlemen!

2003-09-18T07:57:00.000-07:00

Advice for Hurricane Season

With Hurricane Isabel brewing off the coast of the
Carolinas and threatening to wreak havoc on the
eastern seaboard, there is no better time to review
some of the do's and don't's of hurricane season.

DO stock up on important supplies such as water,
non-perishable food items, Ben Gay, and hair gel.

DON'T hide out in your basement like some kind of
sissy. You'll miss all the action. The best place to
view a hurricane is in a homemade treehouse. If you
don't already have one, build one. To save time and
money, try building it out of cardboard instead of
wood.

DO make sure you have a good sound system wired up, so
that when the hurricane hits, you can play a fitting
song to accompany the carnage. I recommend "Danger
Zone" from the Top Gun soundtrack, or "Sinna-ma-rink"
from Sharon, Lois, and Bram.

DON'T get emotional when a telephone pole crashes
through your window and squishes your newborn infant.
It is most important to keep a level head during times
of crisis.

DO buy some kites for yourself and/or your children,
and then go out to fly them when the storm is at its
peak intensity. This will teach your children about
important things like wind velocity and lightning.
Plus, kites are cool.

DON'T wake up in the land of Oz start looking for the
Wizard. He's just a pedofile hiding behind a curtain.

DO make sure the ice cube trays in the freezer are
full. There's nothing more annoying than reaching for
an ice cube and *Uhhp* no one bothered to refill the
trays.

DON'T offer shelter to the homeless. If God wanted
them to survive, He would have given them a place to
live like everybody else.

DO offer shelter to prostitutes. Even if homeless.
Because they're going to be an important part of the
community's rebuilding process after the hurricane.

DON'T chew with your mouth open. It's disgusting.

DO, if it looks like you're going to die in the storm,
find a picture of that old flame who broke your heart
and then rub that picture on your genitals, all the
while fantasizing about having sex. Then, just before
you finish, imagine that you've just given them a
really gross STD. Cuz hey, it's your fantasy, right?

DON'T buy a first aid kit. They're full of clunky
items that will only slow you down if you have to try
to outrun the storm.

DO walk around your neighbourhood, occassionally
yelling to neighbours, "Hey, how about this wind?!"
This will foster some important neighbourly bonding.

DON'T leave your dog tied up outside during the storm.
Let him come inside, where he can die with the rest
of the family.

2003-09-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

MB's Mailbag

As something of a celebrity in the blogging community,
you can well imagine that the Magnificent Bastard
regularly finds himself inundated with questions from
his many loyal fans. This is the first of a new
feature on Cakes and Ale, entitled "MB's Mailbag".

Do you think the nature of blogging has changed in the
nine months you've been in the business?

I'll answer your question with another question - Do
you think men who wear sandals are effeminate? Cuz
there's just something about it that seems to say,
"Hey, look at my pretty toenails!"

If you were going to be stranded on a desert island
and could take only one thing with you, what would it
be?

I would take a jet ski equiped with enough fuel and
food to get me back to the mainland safely. Or... uh,
no, wait... I'd take a lady. A big naked one. Who
likes to do it. And maybe a coat hanger.

Could you please explain the equation E = mc2?

Why, I'd be happy to. This equation is premised on
the proposition that all energy is matter and all
matter is energy. "E", energy, is equal to mass ("m")
multiplied by the speed of light ("c") squared.
Because the speed of light is a constant 186,000 miles
per second (or 299,792,458 metres per second), this
formula provides a simple means of calculating the
amount of energy in a given mass of matter. For
example, matter with a mass of one ounce will yield
34,596,000,000 imperial units of energy. The formula
was discovered by Albert Einstein and put into
practice by Robert Oppenheimer's team in developing
the first atomic bomb. Oh, and don't tell anyone I
told you this, but it also explains how they get the
caramilk inside the Caramilk bar.

Guitar strings? Yes? No? What do you think?

They work great for guitars. I mean, I'm not passing
judgment, but they're just not for me.

Was the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand really the
cause of World War I, or was that just the final
culmination of long-standing racial and ethnic
tension, the inevitable result of which was the
unprecedeted warfare which followed?

Hmmm... I haven't played Risk in years, so I'm afraid
I shouldn't comment. Ooohhh, what the heck - I'll say
it was the assassination thingy.

If you could offer your readers one piece of advice,
what would it be?

Never, under any circumstances, wrap a metal coathanger around your schlong and then put the coat
hanger in an electrical outlet without first making
absolutely certain that you have switched the main
power grid to the "Off" position. I can't stress that
last part enough. A good way know if the main power
is off is to look around. Are there lights on? If
so, then you probably haven't killed the power. Now
this next part is tricky. Even if the lights are OFF,
the main power grid may still be on. Let me explain
how. It may be that the grid is on, but only the
SWITCH for the lights is off. To see if this is the
case, flick the light switch in the room a couple of
times. Notice whether the lights come on when you do
this. If they do, then once again the ol' power grid
has tricked you and is still actually ON. Only
proceed when you are absolutely certain that the main
power has been turned off. Then - happy humping.

Boxers or briefs?

I actually fashion my underpants from those cheap rain
ponchos you buy at Walmart. That way if I get one of
my regular visits from Mr. Oopsy, the clean-up is
never an issue.

I need constant validation from others. Do you like
my question?

I can honestly say, without hyperbole, that this very
question is one million times better than any other
question submitted for this Mailbag. There.

My sister always borrows my clothes without asking.
Do you think I should poison her?

*blink* ....... *blink* Absolutely.

Do you like to hump electrical outlets with clothes
hangers?

Uhhh... no. Never tried it.

Why do bananas always come in those tight little packages that are pretty much impossible to open?

Those are called "peels" - they provide a layer of outer protection so the meaty portion of the banana, generally used for sustenance, can grow on the inside without the intrusive effects of the elements hindering their development in the more tropical climes where bananas usually grow. The "banana peel" can be removed easily using just a phillips-head screwdriver and a trusty hammer.

Thank you for your many interesting questions and queries. It has been my pleasure to shed some light on some of the topics that you, the little people, find so interesting. Watch this space again for future installments of MB's Mailbag.

2003-09-16T06:28:00.000-07:00

Memoirs of a Male Embryo

Why, it seems like only yesterday I was frollicing
around with all my brothers at the old homestead on
Epididymis Lane. Epididymis Lane, of course, is in
the Gonad region of "Brian". Maybe you've heard of
Brian. At least, we think his name is Brian. It's
kind of hard to hear what people call him all the way
down there.

Anyway, we were always busy, always on the move, my
brothers and me. We had a few great games we used to
play - one we used to play with the younger guys was
"Gotchyer Tail", where you'd pretend to take the tail
right off the little guy and show it to him. But what
you'd actually do, is hold YOUR tail between your
thumb and finger and then just SAY it was his. Ahhh
good times. Another game we used to have was called
"Hard-On in Gym Class" where we'd all start moving in
one direction, like we were ready to go swimming right
at that moment. We never really figured out why that
one was funny, but it never failed to amuse. Ahhh the
memories.

One day Brian went under the bleachers with Connie.
Approximately thirty-six seconds later is when it
happened. At first we thought it was a terrorist
attack. The wall at the end our little lane opened up
all of a sudden and GUSH - off we went. At once, we
realized this must be the mysterious "ejaculation"
we'd heard so much about. Funny thing is, I always
imagined that word meant we stood in a circle and sang
folk songs. I assure you I no longer labour under
that misconception. No matter - it was happening!
The speed was exhilarating. It was like those videos
of the German Autobahn they'd shown us in training
classes. Street signs were whizzing by - a large
boulevard called "Vas Deferens" glowed like the Vegas
strip. In no time, we had already zoomed past the
Seminal Vesicles. I was briefly worried that I had
forgotten to drop any coins into the basket at the
toll booth, but thankfully the guard had the bar completely raised.

In one final spasm we were all shot into the milky
expanse of outer space. Or so it seemed at the time.
I was the first to see it - a big planet looming on
the horizon. I don't know why, but all those training
mantras returned and I was compelled to swim. I had
to get there first. And by God, I did! I managed to
infiltrate this delectible feminine orb whilst my
brothers merely knocked their heads against her
surface.

She called a conference as soon as I stepped inside. I
could see she had gone to a lot of trouble - printed
brochures, a note pad for me, even one of those "My
Name Is ____" for both of us to wear. She had the very
sexy name "Egg" - (meee-yow!). But she was all business.

She had diagrams, and an overhead projector, and she
explained the whole thing. How the situation was
prepared every month. In detail. Let me say this -
and I don't care who I offend - those bastards on
Epididymis Lane KNOW the whole story. They just don't
share it. "Swim," they say. But lo, gentlemen. If
only you knew what you were swimming toward.

This Egg I had the misfortune of invading laid down
the law pretty quickly. We were going to be a girl,
she said. Of course, I took exception right away. An
incredible argument ensued. She pointed out that she
had already decorated the walls a brilliant shade of
pink. I pointed out the benefits of being a man,
especially in light of the diagrams she had just shown
me. In the end, we agreed we'd just have to wait and
see. I left that meeting a man near the breaking
point.

My Zygote years are a blurry haze of depression and
cheap cherry brandy. I've since come to understand
that this is not uncommon, and accounts for much of
the sickness early on. Then one day, there it was.
My penis was staring back at me like a diamond on a
beach! We fought some more, but eventually she
conceded and I declared myself, "Little Brian" in
honour of our Commander-In-Chief back on
Epididymis Lane. We agreed that I would only concede
authority to her powers when trying to please a woman
(with the compromise that I do so only to get said
woman in the sack), or when any beloved sports team
suffers a heart-breaking defeat (but only after the
other guys leave).

And so that brings me to the present day. I've
decided on a life of little compromises to achieve the
greater personal good. And I have to say, that Egg,
she does have her charm at times. Heck, I'm even
starting to get used to the bright pink walls.
Although they do seem to be closing in...

2003-09-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

NUMBER THREE RETURNS TO WORK !!!

(CP) - OTTAWA - The number three, temporarily known as the number after two and before four, returned to work late this afternoon, ending a difficult 54-day walk-out. Negotiations between the embattled number and Cardinal Numbers Inc. broke off early last week, but with both sides feeling the economic crunch of the work stoppage, last night's eleventh-hour marathon session resulted in an agreement in principle between the two sides.

"We're just looking forward to getting back to work, healing old wounds, and starting this relationship anew," said Saxicco Numerico, VP Communications at Cardinal.

As part of the agreement, the number in question will return to work immediately while the details of new arrangement are being implemented. Salary and benefits will be payable retroactively throughout the strike period.

"This is a major victory for the Number Three," said a spokesperson for the number on condition of anonymity. "The important thing now is just to put this ugliness behind us."

With the school year now upon us, rumours have been circulating that the employer buckled under protests from the lobby group Parents for Equal Numeric Ideological Stances (PENIS). The group cited among its concerns the cost of locating calculators with only nine digits, as well as transportation difficulties for students who normally travel on Bus No. 3.

When questioned directly on the role of the organized lobby, Mr. Numerico declined comment.

2003-07-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

The Number Three Declares Work Stoppage

(CP) - OTTAWA - In an unprecedented labour maneuver, the number that comes after “two” walked off the job today in a dispute over salary, benefits, and long-term job security.

In a press release obtained this morning, the disgruntled number is permitting news outlets to refer to its name in headlines only, to draw attention to the labour dispute, but refused to permit use of the number in the article itself. Reporters have therefore been forced to come up with new and creative ways to describe the number – such as the number after “two”, the number before “four”, and one-quarter of twelve.

In a show of solidarity, several affiliated numbers have walked off the job in support of the indignant integer. The numbers after twelve, twenty-two, and sixty-two and the ten numbers between 29 and 40 have also taken to the picket lines. The numbers 43, 53, 73, and 83 could not be reached for comment, while the number 93 indicated it would join the work stoppage if the dispute is not settled by midnight Thursday.

Curiously, the Union of Affiliated Fractions Local 1261 has spoken out against the wildcat strike. “We’re all for solidarity but it seems sometimes the whole numbers forget how good they have it,” said union president One-Third. “I mean, when’s the last time you saw a fraction on the back of a baseball jersey?”

The dispute is alleged to have been initiated by the recent increases in salary and benefits obtained by the number Five, as well as new ten-year deal inked by the number Eight. Neither Five nor Eight could be reached for comment, but a spokesperson for Cardinal Numbers Inc. indicated that all numbers are dealt with on an individual basis.

This is the first work stoppage since the number # quit entirely to become a symbol.

2003-07-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

The Newest Trends in Blogging, Part II

A few months ago, I noticed that the “Open Letter to an Old Flame” was en vogue in blogging. I proceeded to lampoon this trend in a brilliantly hilarious entry of the same name, which I cannot link to as the archives seem to be down. To refresh your memory, the old flame in question stood accused of blowing the entire hockey team – a few times. Anyway, more recently, I’ve noticed that a lot of blogs have a section sort of like the following:

Mood: Pleasant
Reading: Shampoo Planet by Douglas Coupland
Listening to: John Mayer, White Stripes, Ben Harper

… then the entry itself here, and then usually at the start or end of each entry, there is a quote of some kind from a movie, TV show, book, philosopher, etc. It reaches the point of hilarity when these mere blogging suffixes and prefixes say more about the person than the actual entry they write.

Keeping all that in mind, I offer the following entry you might find on a not-so-great blog.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

Mood: Sort of like a cross between Tony Montana during the chainsaw/shower scene in Scarface; Garfield after he’s eaten a whole pan of lasagne; and Blanche from the Golden Girls on one of those nights she comes home early and eats cheesecake because she failed to pick up. Other than that, not feeling too bad.

Reading: Let’s see… well, I read the back of the shampoo bottle this morning when I took a dump… uh, and I read that news-ticker on MuchMoreMusic this morning, just cuz it was on when they were playing the new Snoop video. Hey – did you know today is David Hasselhoff’s birthday?

Listening to: The Pointer Sisters, the theme song from Growing Pains, the tinny hum of the fan in the back of my computer, and the elderly couple in the next apartment having sex.

Hey, everybody, not too much happening today. Not too much to say. Am I ever glad I started this blog so I can document all the interesting things that happen to me in my life. I’ll write again next month if I have time.

Quote:

Woman in the lunchroom - “Does the noise in my head bother you?” - The Gods Must Be Crazy (1980) 20th Century Fox Film Corporation

2003-07-11T12:15:00.000-07:00

Open Letter to Michelangelo

Dear Michelangelo:

Thank you for giving your statue, David, such a small penis. I think I speak for millions of men out there when I say that you’ve lowered the bar for all of us, and for that I thank you. I mean, sure, maybe he’s hung like a backyard swing when he’s erect, but you chose to give him a flaccid little dodger resembling the disembodied head of a seahorse. For that you deserve the infinite thanks of all us small- to average-sized men. That’s not to say that I, myself, am small- to average-sized. No no no. I mean, just ask any parking meter on Commercial St. All I mean to say is, thank you for this great service to men everwhere.

Sincerely,
The Magnificent Bastard

2003-07-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh Summer

Summer is so great. The days are filled with the scent of freshly-cut grass, and the nights are filled with the welcomed dewey relief from the day’s glaring humidity. For some, there is no greater pleasure than sitting outside on a deck or a picnic table and sipping lemonade, or a cold beer, or maybe even just some ice water. For others, the joy of summer is in the myriad outdoor activities one can enjoy during these few beautiful sun-drenched months – baseball in the park, tossing around the Frisbee in the backyard, maybe going on a camping trip and sleeping under a beautifully expansive canopy of stars. Some people enjoy a bit of sunbathing on a sunny day, with a good book propped under their chins – letting the summer seep into their pores as they race the inevitable coming of the golden equinox.

Yes, summer means many things to many people. But to me, summer will always mean rubbing my genitals on the parking meters in downtown Glace Bay. That’s right, my genitals. Sometimes through the thin sheath of my shorts, and sometimes in all their raw naked glory. There’s no sensation quite like it, really – just give me a parking meter and I’m entertained from mid-June ‘til mid-September.

It gives me a certain sense of excitement to do it when Commercial St. is sort of crowded – say mid-day, or around suppertime when people are coming home from work. Cars are driving by, people listening to summer rock anthems with their windows rolled down and their stereos cranked – not even noticing the Magnificent Bastard surreptitiously rubbing his genitals on the parking meters.

Don’t ask me why – it’s hard to say. I think it’s the way the black metal of the parking meter absorbs heat on the side facing the sun, but remains so nice and cool on the side in the shade. So that when I move from one side to the other, I immediately feel the shift from warmth to coolness, from sunlight to shadow, from light to dark – and of course, it just adds to the effect to have these wonderfully juxtaposed sensations experienced through my genitals.

So, you can keep your baseball, your sunbathing, your camping under the stars. For me the true glory of summer is in the sensation I get when I plunk my sack down on a parking meter and move it around a little. Well, a little at first, then more toward the end. But I always move on. Because, let’s face it, there’s a lot of parking meters out there. Indeed, summer has something for everyone. Ahhhh summer.

2003-06-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

The Case Against the Incredible Hulk

The City of San Francisco (First Plaintiff); The State of California (Second Plaintiff); 9894125 California Inc., operating under the business name of BioTech Industries (Third Plaintiff); People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA, Fourth Plaintiff); Betty Ross (Fifth Plaintiff)

v.

Bruce Banner (a.k.a. “Hulk”; a.k.a. “The Incredible Hulk”)

STATEMENT OF CLAIM

1. The First Plaintiff, The City of San Francisco submits that on or about the third week of June 2003, the Defendant did knowingly and/or negligently:
a. Cause damage to municipally-owned streets by smashing his inhumanly large fists into the pavement causing buckling and crackling, particulars of which are outlined below under the heading “Damages”.
b. Damaged and/or destroyed numerous fire hydrants on streets near San Francisco Bay during an unprovoked rampage through the City of San Francisco.
c. Caused damaged to numerous street car tracks in the City of San Francisco by willfully and/or negligently stepping upon said tracks with his giant green feet.

2. The Second Plaintiff, The State of California, submits that on or about the third week of June 2003, the Defendant did knowingly and/or negligently:
a. Cause damage to the bedrock basin of San Francisco Bay by inviting the fire of military aircraft with their errant missiles;
b. Cause damage to the structure of the Golden Gate Bridge by inviting the fire of military aircraft with errant machine gun fire;
c. Cause the destruction of a police cruiser in the course of throwing a big round gamma ray machine out of a BioTech lab;
d. Cause damage to the tourism industry of the State of California by causing the aforementioned destruction.

3. The Third Plaintiff, BioTech Industries, submits that on or about the third week of June 2003, the Defendant did knowingly and/or negligently:
a. Cause destruction to its Nevada lab, in particular:
(i) smash through five floor-to-ceiling sized windows;
(ii) totally destroy three labs;
(iii) throw a big round gamma ray machine out of a BioTech lab thereby destroying the police cruiser heretofore mentioned in paragraph 2(c).

4. The Fourth Plaintiff (PETA – People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals), submits that on or about the third week of June 2003, the Defendant did knowingly and/or negligently:
a. Strike or cause to be struck multiple times three genetically-mutated canine creatures.

5. The Fifth Plaintiff, Betty Ross, submits that on or about the third week of June 2003, the Defendant did knowingly and/or negligently:
a. Strike or cause to be struck multiple times against the hood and front-end of her car three genetically-mutated canine creatures.

DAMAGES

6. The First Plaintiff, the City of San Francisco, claims against the Defendant damages in the amount of $2,750,000.00
7. The Second Plaintiff, the State of California, claims against the Defendant damages in the amount of $1,500,000.00
8. The Third Plaintiff, BioTech Industries, claims against the Defendant damages in the amount of $2,000,000.00
9. The Fourth Plaintiff, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, claims against the Defendant damages in the amount of $100.00 and several hurt feelings.
10. The Fifth Defendant, Betty Ross, claims against the Defendant damages in the amount of $5,000.00 or a careful kiss on the cheek, whichever comes first.

And such other damages as this honourable court deems fit.

All of which is sworn to on this 27th day of June 2003 by

THE MAGNIFICENT BASTARD

Solicitor for the Plaintiffs

2003-06-02T12:18:00.000-07:00

Rejected Hollywood Classics

Cakes and Ale has uncovered some rare original scripts of several Hollywood classics (and not-so classics). The original storylines may startle you:

It’s a Wonderful Life – We all remember the ending where the good folks of Bedford Falls rally round George Bailey, giving him enough money to fend off the nefarious bank inspector who is threatening to close up the Building and Loan and throw George in jail. The original script, however, had no such happy ending – the people of Bedford Falls were still pissed at George for squandering all their money and refused to give Mary anything when she went door-to-door trying to rally support. The dejected George comes home to find the police and bank inspector waiting for him, but he makes a quick getaway, and runs over to Uncle Billy’s house (the man who lost the money and caused all his problems). George bursts through the door and begins throttling Uncle Billy, eventually choking him to death. Just as the police manage to break in, Billy utters his last words through gurgled blood, “Well *hack* it was a wonderful life”. The original title was thus an ironic commentary on the tragic ending of the movie. Producers rejected the script, however, and demanded something up-lifting be written in its place. The writers went to work creating the ending we all know and love and completely removed all elements of the tragedy they originally intended. They also removed an earlier scene where Mr. Gower molests George in the back of the drug store.

The Godfather - We all remember the classic restaurant scene in which a fresh-faced Michael Corleone murders Captain McCluskey and Virgil Sollozzo, thereby entangling himself inexorably in the family business. It is a powerful scene, punctuated by a crescendo of horns as Michael walks out of the restaurant and into his Sicilian exile. Originally, however, the scene was written very differently. When Michael returns from the bathroom, he doesn’t shoot McCluskey and Sollozzo – he sits down and begins eating his food. Sollozzo and Michael then engage in a humorous exchange about how you can never be sure if someone washes his hands in the bathroom. McCluskey slurps a strand of spaghetti and unknowingly flings a large splash of spaghetti sauce onto the middle of his forehead. Michael and Sollozzo begin laughing hysterically and pointing at the Captain’s forehead. McCluskey says repeatedly, “What? What are you laughing at? What is it, guys?” When they can’t stop laughing McCluskey takes out his gun and waves it around jokingly. But it accidentally misfires and hits Sollozzo in the chest. Everyone is shocked. With his last breath, Sollozzo takes a gun out of his sock and shoots McCluskey in the forehead. Michael – shocked by what has happened – runs from the restaurant screaming and crying like a felt-up prom queen. The producers felt the scene had to be re-written to make Michael seem tougher, as he would be inheriting the family business by the end of the movie. “Hey,” one of the writers reportedly said, “what if we have Michael kill them?” True story.

Showgirls 2 - You may be saying to yourself, “I didn’t even know there was a Showgirls 2.” That’s because the idea was scrapped before it even got off the drawing board. Paramount Pictures originally intended this sassy sequel to be a crossover hit with its popular Sister Act series by combining the two movies. Showgirls 2 was slated to unite the casts of the family comedy and stripper drama in one super sequel in which Whoopi Goldberg’s character experiences the ups and downs (literally) of the exotic dancing industry as she shimmies and shakes her way through her role as the stripping nun with the heart of gold. A heartwarming tale dubbed the “Erin Brockovich of stripping nun movies,” the project was scrapped in favour of the upcoming Pauly Shore flic, Unbelievably Dumber Than Fucking Dirt, which was surprisingly a hit with the key 18 to 34 male demographic.

Ghostbusters – We all remember the final scene atop Dana Barrett’s apartment complex when Gozer, taking the form of a Chezoslovakian model in a suran wrap suit, tells the Ghostbusters to choose their destroyer. In the beloved 1984 release, Ray Stantz (played by Dan Akroyd) somehow thinks of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and the giant white boy in the sailor suit comes crashing through the streets of Manhattan. In the original script, however, when Gozer tells them choose their destroyer, Peter Venkman (the irreverent scientist played hilariously by Bill Murray) immediately thinks of the breasts belonging to the girl in the psychology experiment in the movie’s first scene. The woman (in giant form and topless) emerges a moment later, leans on the building and begins crushing the crew of Ghostbusters on the roof. In one last chance to save humanity, Venkman must choose between reaching for his proton pack and reaching for the giant nipple that’s about to crush him. Sporting a devilish smile, he reaches for the nipple, and the breast flattens him, bringing up the end credits of the movie. The original ending was rejected by studio bosses because of its ‘R’ rating, rather than the softer ‘PG’ the Marshmallow version originally received. It’s thought to be an oversight that the title, “Ghostbusters” was left untouched after changing the ending.

Schindler’s List – As hard as it is to believe, this monumental holocaust drama was originally written to be shot as a musical starring John Travolta and Sir Laurence Olivier and was originally titled, The Zany Dancing Gestapo. Unfortunately, Olivier died while the project was in production, and it was abandoned. A young man named Steven Speildberg came along a few years later, cut out all the dance numbers and one-liners, added a little girl in a red coat, and voila – cinematic history.

2003-05-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

Rapper “O-CD” has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Atlanta (AP) - Hot young rapper O-CD suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder, a spokesperson for his record label, Thug Reckits, said today at a press conference.

“Latrel Dextrose Smith, better known as multi-platinum Thug Reckits recording artist O-CD, has been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder,” said label spokesperson Beverley Singleton.

Internet message boards have been busy since the announcement, with many fans citing disbelief that the singer of such hits as, “Nigga Be Washin His Hands”, “Thug Countin’ His Steps”, and “Defth ta Sidwalk Crax” could possibly suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder.

Confidential members of the rapper’s entourage, however, tell a different story. Speaking on condition of anonymity, a close friend and body guard says, “O-CD would spend hours hand-polishing each link on each of his five gold chains, and then meticulously see that the chains were draped around his neck in precise order and rotated clockwise in half-hour intervals until each had completed twenty rotations, at which point he would demand that five new gold chains be purchased. We was like, dawg, that’s off the hook – but we kept it on the downlow, cuz, you know, man – he our homie.”

Other unconfirmed reports indicate that O-CD demanded his stylist fashion his hair in 27 interlocking corn-rows of identical length. His seemingly arbitrary reason? His house number as a child was 27. His stylist, Yves Marchand, would not return phone calls but independent research has confirmed that the rapper’s childhood home was, in fact, 27 Westwood Avenue, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Such would seem to be the extent of this potentially debilitating illness.

Beverley Singleton, label spokesperson, had no comment when asked if O-CD’s upcoming album would be delayed because of his condition. “Ivory Soap Be Da Bomb” is scheduled to be released in July.

2003-05-20T18:39:00.000-07:00

Recipe for a Gord Downie Song

Now, I love Gord Downie – let me just say - the Hip is the shit. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I downloaded all the Hip songs onto one MP3 disc this week and, while I loved the whole thing, I made the following observations that you may appreciate:

Recipe for a Gord Downie Song:

1 cup Canadiana
6 oz Clever rhyming you never would have even thought rhymed
3 tspns Obscure CanLit reference
2 tspns Hockey hero
1 dash Mention of Canadian City(ies)
3 oz Another Obscure CanLit reference
5 tblspns Something you haven’t never heard before
1 cup Rock n’ fuckin Roll

God love the Hip....

2003-05-15T19:04:00.000-07:00

The Theory of Relativity – by Ug the Neanderthal

Uh-hum hum (clears throat) Ug thank you for coming. Ug have theory, called “theory of relativity”. Ug’s theory actually two theories – general theory of relativity and specific theory of relativity. First, Ug talk about special theory. Ug ask you – consider “geometrical propositions”. This mean position of point on imaginary plane. Now, think another point just like first point. Space between two points Ug call “distance”. Now, Ug ask you – imagine you at one point. Then move to other point. This require passage of what Ug call “time” to travel the “distance”.. Ug think relativity different from regular “geometric propositions” because introduce “time” as fourth dimension. But Ug digress. Ug ask – what time and distance between points. Ug find two different answers. One answer if you look from one point to other, but different answer if we stand away from both points. Ug show you how. If Ug shine flashlight from one point to other, Ug get distance in quickest time – speed of light fast. Ug set up mirror on other point, so light travel back to first point. This allow Ug to watch light go back and forth between points. If Ug stand in spot and move points away very fast, Ug will see light take longer time get to point than Ug would see if Ug standing at point instead of at spot. If points move at speed of light, then Ug would see flashlight take long time to get to mirror, but if Ug holding flashlight it would take same amount of time even if move fast or slow. This mean person traveling at speed of light have time move slower than person not moving at speed of light. Thus, Ug think travel into the future possible, in theory.

Now Ug talk about general theory. Problem with special theory – Ug not consider gravity. Gravity constant, so no effect on example in special theory. Hmmm. Ug wonder – gravity pull on light as travels? Would flashlight experiment different where no gravity? Ug realize gravity mean motion, and Ug already show with flashlight – motion affect time. Gravity affect time? Ug think yes – Ug think all fields could have effect – gravity, electromagnetic – anything. Then Ug wonder about nature of light – effect depend on if light wave or particle. Ug conduct experiment during eclipse. Proves light affect by gravitational pull – bend self around heavenly bodies. Ug curious. Ug conclude light both wave and particle. This mean motion - and Ug show in special theory, also time – affected by fields, like gravity. Ug wonder why light different in different type fields. Ug decide must come up with “Unified Field Theory” to explain all this. Ug not finish theory. Ug tired - explain enough for one day. Ug thank you.

2003-05-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

Socratres: Self-Pleasure and the City State

Testacleus: Brother Pullonius, I have heard that you will be punished for committing certain selfish acts.

Pullonius: While it is true that I am to be punished, I cannot agree that I committed selfish acts.

T.: So you do not deny committing the selfish acts, you merely disagree with the justness of the punishment?

P.: I would like to construct an argument in response to your inquiry, but alas even I, myself, am not certain of the reasonableness of my position. Perhaps my uncle, Socrates, can help us. Socrates?

Socrates: Yes, Pullonius?

P.: Is it wrong for a man to commit certain selfish acts?

S.: To which selfish acts do you refer?

P.: Uhh, I refer to the acts which…. Uh… boys begin to discover when they become the age of men…

S: Ahhh, yes, Pullonius. Now I see your question – you are wondering if the act of self-pleasure is a selfish act, and therefore one to which a prescribed punishment should attach?

P: Indeed, in your wisdom, Socrates, that is my question. Pray, what is the answer?

S: Tell me – what various types are the nature of men?

P: Well… there are good men….

T: and there are bad men….

S: Yes, very good Pullonius. Very good, Testacleus. Some may argue that there are other types of men – nervous men, patient men, and so forth – be we agree then, that in their heart of hearts, all men are either good or bad. May we begin with this premise?

P: I follow, Socrates.

S: Now tell me – what various types are the nature of city-states?

P: Well, there are the peaceful city-states…

T: and, also, there are the warring city-states.

S: Indeed – it can only be so. Each city-state is either at war or at peace, and it is sound logic that none can be both at once. Now tell me, of these two types of city-states, what are the characteristics of each?

P: Well, Socrates, the peaceful city-state is in want of nothing, and is content with its position.

S: And what of the warring city states?

T: There is upheaval and unrest and unpredictability.

S: So, you tell me that what makes a peaceful city-state different from a warring city-state is contentment and lack of contentment?

P: None would disagree.

S: And tell me, Pullonius, the dual natures of man, of which we spoke earlier – the good and the bad. In which of our city-states would these men most naturally be found?

P: It would seem that most good men would be in the peaceful city-states…

T: While most bad men would be in the warring city-states.

S: I would agree that your inferences are sound, Pullonius and Testacleus. Now tell me – in which of those two city-states would you prefer to live?

P: Why, the peaceful city-state, of course.

T: Of course, Socrates, the peaceful one.

S: Very good. These answers will prove useful in a moment. May I infer from your responses that you would be happier living in a peaceful city-state?

P: Certainly, Socrates.

T: Indeed.

S: So the superlative city-state is one in which its peaceful nature is measured through and exists in conjunction with the happiness of its individual members?

P: Yes, I would agree.

T: Certainly.

S: Then, if peacefulness is measured by happiness, happiness must be a measure of peacefulness, is that not so?

P: It has to be, Socrates!

T: It cannot be any other way.

S: Very good. Now tell me, Pullonius, when you were caught pleasuring yourself – were you doing that to make yourself happy?

P: Of course.

T: And you were successful in achieving some measure of happiness from the act?

P: Until I got caught, yes, Socrates, it was quite pleasurable.

S: Good. And would you agree, based on our earlier premise, that by increasing your own happiness, you were increasing the peacefulness of the city state?

P: Yes!

S: And you will recall a few moments ago, you both agreed that you would choose to live in a peaceful city-state over a warring one, and that the superlative city-state is one in which happiness is a measure of peacefulness?

P: Yes, we did agree with that.

T: We did.

S: And finally, Pullonius, would you agree that the act brought you pleasure, which increased your happiness, which inevitably increased the peacefulness of your city-state?

T: He has proved it!

S: Would you agree that your self-pleasure actually helped you and your fellow citizens move toward the ideal of the superlative peaceful city-state?

P: Indeed, Socrates – it can be no other way! My whacking off actually made the city-state a better place to live. Surely I cannot be punished!

S: And so, Pullonius, you have answered your own question.

T: Hey Socrates - does it matter that he was sitting on a curb in front of the town market when he was doing it?

2003-05-07T03:56:00.000-07:00

SARS – Band Announces Name Change

Louisbourg (CP) - Local garage rock band SARS has announced that it has been forced to change its moniker in light of the recent health epidemic that shares the band’s name.

“The Seventh Army of Revolutionary Sentries is no more,” said a remorseful Darryl O’Shea, lead singer and founding member of the band. “Which sucks because it was a really cool name for doing the heavy stuff we like to do – like Black Sabbath and Tammy Wynett.”

O’Shea noted the comparison between his band’s recent ordeal and that of another famous band. “I mean, it happened with Anthrax last year, right? Only, like, they didn’t change their name or anything, but still, I mean, it’s pretty shitty.”

As O’Shea points out, SARS is now suffering from the same misfortune that has befallen other bands in the past. In addition to Anthrax last year, the 1920s bluegrass band “Chicken Pox” was forced to change their name to the “Lil’ Scamps”, the 1940s progressive German band “Measles” changed its name to “Das Sunflowers”, and the 1970s disco supergroup “Gonorrhea” barely got its boogie shoes off the ground before the unfortunate discovery of the sexually transmitted disease of the same name.

But fans need not worry - SARS is dead in name only. “The band consists of just myself on vocals and kazoo, and my songwriting partner Bobby MacIssac on ukulele. We were thinking of maybe just the Army of Revolutionary Sentries, but then we’d pretty much just be ‘arse’ , and that doesn’t sound too good. But one thing’s for sure,” says O’Shea emphatically, “I guarantee you - this band is here to stay.”

(The band formerly known as SARS will be playing the shopping center food court from 1:00 to 1:10 p.m. this Saturday.)

2003-05-06T15:19:00.000-07:00

Jessica Christ

And lo there was a star in the west, and a shepherd noticed it and said, “Holy shit, look at the size of that star,” but lo there was none to respond to the shepherd but his tender flock of sheep, one of which he was in the process of deflowering when the star caught his eye.

And lo there actually was room at the inn, but the innkeeper politely pointed to the “Sorry - No Pregnant Virgins” sign and made arrangements for the bickering couple to stay in the barn. Joseph was bickering with Mary for most of the ride because he was sure he couldn’t possibly be the father – sure, he had felt her up a bit during the exodus from Egypt, but that couldn’t make a woman with child, could it? Secretly, Joseph suspected Yaweh of being the father, what with his motorcycle and leather loin cloth.

And lo there came from the east three queens – bearing gifts of L’Oreal Fortifying Cream, Sally Hansen nail polish, and a bottle of the Essences that are Herbal. They entered the barn just as Mary was yelling, “Fuck the straw bed, I’m going to drop the little bastard right here,” as she hovered over a manger, clutching her blue frock.

And lo, in the manger, under the star of Bethlehem, in the presence of the three visitors and their gifts, Mary gave birth to a child – a holy child – Jessica Christ. And the visitors, with sacred deference, didst cast their eyes away from the unholy source of the umbilical cord.

And lo, there was rejoicing in the barn, and the animals brayed and the shepherds did lie with their flock, and the innkeeper stuck his head in the barn door and marvelled at the commotion – so amazed was he that this unwelcome pregger now had six people in the barn but was paying for only two.

And lo, Jessica, Mary, and Joseph were cast out of the inn, without so much as a return of their damage deposit, and did stumble, much as they had come, back with their ass, toward Nazareth.

And lo, many years came to pass, and Jessica grew from infant to child, and from child to young woman. That is to say, her boobies doth sprungeth forth and various mosses grew in the valley. And during her travels around Nazareth, she encountered a young man who had a reputation for being smitten with the ladies. And so it was with Michael Magdelen that young Jessica Christ didst first get her freak on, and lo she did marvel at his prowess.

And lo, young Jessica came to work as a waitress in a cantina in Jerusalem. And the owner of the cantina didst serve fast and affordable meals to the various travellers and sojourners passing through the ancient city. Patrons didst have the option of sitting in to dine, or waiting at a window whilst they continued to ride their camels.

And lo it was a very busy day at the cantina – the owner had declared the daily special to be “loaves and fishes”. The owner was one of those people who insisted that the plural of fish is “fishes” – even though he no trouble recognizing that “loafs” would be unviable, but I digress. Alas, the sale of loaves and fishes was going so well, that lo the cantina began to experience a shortage of supplies. The owner whispered to his staff that he feared he would only be able to serve a few more Loaves and Fishes Happy Meals before the supply ran out. Upon hearing this, Jessica didst enter the kitchen of the cantina, for she didst remember seeing some extra loaves that had fallen behind the breadbox, and was certain there were some unused fishes in the fridge. As she gathered up the items, she heard the owner announce to the patrons that they had run out of food – and lo the masses were thrown into an interminable rancour.

But lo, Jessica Christ burst through the door, carrying in her arms an abundance of loaves and fishes. And the masses did rejoice, and fall at her feet, and kiss her sandals - even though they had that funny summer smell.

And lo from that day forward, there was told the sacred story of Jessica Christ and the miracle of the loaves and fishes.

[Hey kids! Tune in next time for Jessica’s Sermon on the Mount!]

2003-05-03T09:52:00.000-07:00

A Rare Personal Entry

As you, the readers know, Cakes and Ale is a place where my alter-ego, the Magnificent Bastard comes to write things that he thinks are funny. Hopefully, others will find it funny as well, or at least derive some perverse pleasure in the failed attempt. However, I have had a very rare brush with celebrity, and I’m sure people who know me would want to know about it. So, I apologize for the complete lack of humour in this, a rare personal entry.

So, I’m sitting in an unnamed Halifax bar last night with a few friends, enjoying an after work drink. We’re just chatting about stuff and enjoying ourselves (and the happy hour prices), when the door opens and I happen to notice for some reason. Who walks into this little Halifax bar but… Nicole Kidman. My friends noticed my jaw hit the floor and turned to see what I was looking at. Needless to say, within minutes, the bar was abuzz as the glamorous movie star and her four-bodyguard entourage got noticed. She was wearing a denim jacket and jeans, but she still looked gorgeous – and there was no mistaking that it was her.

My friends and I were shocked at first, and then sort of giddy. One person said the biggest celebrity she’d ever seen in real life was a CBC news anchor. Another said he’d once seen the Prime Minister on a school trip. But this was surreal – sitting in a bar for an after-work drink on Spring Garden Road in Halifax and Nicole Kidman – Academy Award winner and glamorous superstar – is sitting a mere twenty or thirty feet away, looking over a drink menu. We were flabbergasted.

We speculated as to how she may have ended up in Halifax. Sure, celebrities have been here before, but usually the newspapers are talking about it weeks or months before they actually show up. We wondered, how could such a big star be in town and no one knows about it yet? A waitress blocked our view for a moment as she seemed to be ordering something. The friend who had only seen the CBC news anchor suddenly became a big fan of Nicole Kidman. She started rhyming off a bunch of her movies that she liked. “Remember her in To Die For? It was awesome!” and another friend was almost tearfully giddy when he suggested Eyes Wide Shut was Kubrick’s best movie.

“I think I’ll go ask her for an autograph,” my CBC friend said. “You think she’d mind?” In no time we had goaded my friend along, and a pen and blank piece of paper appeared from out of nowhere. “I’m gonna do it!” she said, standing from the table with a few nervous steps, looking back at us over her shoulder, as we waved her along.

We were on the edge of our seats in anticipation. Someone we knew was actually going to interact with a major Hollywood star. My friend was almost at the table – virtually within an arm’s length of Nicole Kidman – when the waitress suddenly reappeared with a bottle of wine.

My friend stopped a moment, and shifted her weight from foot to foot, obviously nervous at the impending star encounter. The waitress said something to Nicole Kidman and showed her the bottle of wine, which made her smile politely. Then the waitress adjusted the corkscrew and was about to present the star actress with the cork.

And that’s when it happened. I’ve thought about it many times since, and I’m absolutely certain that no one in the bar – probably no one at all – could have guessed what happened next. The waitress opened the bottle… and out of it emerged the ghost of Ernie Coombs – Mr. Dressup himself. He challenged Nicole Kidman to a mud wrestling match and won on the best two-out of three falls with a vicious suplex move he calls “tickle trunk”. It was amazing.

What? Did you actually fucking think I saw Nicole Kidman at a bar in Halifax?

2003-05-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

Glace Bay Man Says He Doesn’t Much Care for Oprah

Glace Bay (CP) - “I don’t much care for Oprah,” says Donald MacDonald, a Glace Bay resident. “I mean, I used to watch her all the time. First, with my mother, and then later on with my wife, and I always thought it was a good show.”

But something happened to change MacDonald’s mind. “She took a question from a woman in the audience one day. Then she took another question from a woman. Then she took another question from a woman. Then I realized everyone in the audience was a woman.” MacDonald says he was shocked to learn that Oprah has long been a show for and about women.

“I mean, sure, there was a show on quilting – but who doesn’t like quilts? They keep you warm, right?” In retrospect, MacDonald admits, many of the show’s themes are now obviously feminine in tone. “There were shows about mothers and daughters being reunited after being separated at birth – but I thought nothing of it – they used to do that on Unsolved Mysteries all the time, for cripes sake.”

MacDonald wonders if other men are aware of the estrogenized nature of the Oprah Winfrey Show. “I just wonder how many men are out there, watching a show on proper douching techniques, and don’t even realize the show is about women,” MacDonald said, disgustedly. The Oprah Winfrey Show airs at 4 pm on the Women’s Network.

2003-04-02T17:59:00.000-08:00

Cakes and Ale - Humour Personality Test

You’ve all seen and taken these Internet personality tests. Cakes and Ale presents – a personality test to measure your sense of humour. Please record your responses as you complete the test and an answer key will be provided when you are finished.

1. An elderly woman slipping on a banana peel is:
A. Funny
B. Only funny if she breaks her hip
C. Sad
D. Sexually arousing

2. The funniest thing you’ve ever seen:
A. Happened when you were very young
B. Happened very recently
C. Happened while at school or work
D. Happens to be in your pants

3. The best thing about the circus is:
A. Clowns
B. Games of chance
C. Thrilling rides
D. Licking the handlebar on the ferris wheel

4. Of the following sentences, the funniest is:
A. “We keep the peanut butter in the cupboard.”
B. “Cars these days are nifty.”
C. “Please pass me my dentures.”
D. (anything in sign language)

5. “The tendancy of an object in motion to stay in motion” is the definition of:
A. “Inertia”
B. “Relativity”
C. “Irony”
D. “Fallopian tube”

6. Compared to you, your best friend is:
A. Funnier
B. Not as funny
C. Equally funny
D. A fucking asshole

7. Which of the following songs best suits your mood at this moment?
A. “Smells Like Teen Spirit”
B. “American Pie”
C. “In Da Club”
D. “I’m a Little Teapot”

8. Which would most like to do when you first get up in the morning:
A. Sit on a deck overlooking the ocean and watch the sunrise
B. Grab a quick shower and start in on the household chores
C. Go for a brisk jog in the cool hazy dawn
D. Screw a supermodel until the neighbours complain about the smell

9. You first remember laughing:
A. when you heard a joke in Grade Primary
B. when your parents told me a funny story
C. when your parents made a funny face
D. when the tail of the guy swimming in front kept flicking you in the head

10. The saddest people in the world are:
A. people who are lonely
B. people who are sick
C. people who are poor
D. people who actually kept score on this test

2003-03-25T14:30:00.000-08:00

Secrets of Butterscotch Revealed

TORONTO (CP) - Metropolitan Toronto Police made a startling revelation at a press conference Tuesday – butterscotch, the popular flavouring found in everything from candy to ice cream, is actually made from pigeon shit.

“All we know at this point is that butterscotch is made from pigeon shit,” said Constable Richard Enbolls, “and until we get results back from the lab, that’s the only comment we can offer.”

Police were called to a routine traffic accident on a street in front of a west end warehouse late Monday afternoon. While surveying the accident scene and interviewing witnesses, Constable Enbolls and his partner Constable Amanda Benthover, immediately noticed that something was amiss.

“I said, ‘What’s that smell?’ I mean, at first, we thought it was something burning from the accident, but the closer we got to the warehouse the worse the smell got, and we knew something was up.” Constable Benthover explained that they then heard a muffled droning, which they first mistakenly believed to be a running engine. Concerned about the contents of the warehouse, the pair of constables carefully opened the huge warehouse doors.

“And there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of pigeons sitting on these perches, shitting into these large bubbling vats. There was a vast network of tubes and machinery running from these vats into a large cooling vat on the other side of the room. When we got to this other vat, sure enough, it was full of butterscotch,” said Constable Enbolls.

Although there is no official comment until lab results confirm that the substance was butterscotch, a reliable source close to the investigation speculated that the vats of pigeon shit were treated with a soluble sugar solution, filtered for purity, and then treated for colour and flavour.

The local Society for Animal Cruelty issued a statement saying, in part, “It disturbs us that people are willing to rip a bird apart and eat what they find on the inside, but they’re too hypocritical to even consider eating that bird’s shit.” When asked to comment on the Society’s statement, Constables Enbolls indicated that this is a serious investigation and that more information will be forthcoming. Constable Benthover merely chuckled and joked that she would be laying off the butterscotch ice cream from now on.

2003-03-15T17:14:00.000-08:00

Proposed Porno Titles

Ate My All – An aspiring white rapper struggles with his troubled upbringing and bleak surroundings to pursue his dream of becoming a star. And he fucks a lot of people along the way.

How to Screw a Guy in Ten Days – A writer for a women’s magazine sets out to have a guy break up with her in ten days or less, by doing all those things men find annoying about women – like using too much teeth.

The Penist – In wartime Poland, a young Jewish girl survives the atrocities of the holocaust to return to her one true love – sucking cock.

The Cunted – A former soldier (played by a guy who looks like Benicio del Toro) is haunted by memories of his horrific experiences in the communal barracks shower. He engages in a desperate attempt to re-assert his masculinity by fucking scores and scores of women.

Hairy Potter and the Chambermaid of Secrets – A young wizard has his burgeoning pubescent sexuality awakened by the discovery that his potter has become hairy. He turns his attentions – and his hairy potter - to his chambermaid, complete with graphic close-ups of his griffendor entering her quiddich.

Punch-Drunk Fuck – A (mock) documentary about how people will inexplicably fuck ugly people when they’re drunk.

Lord of the Cock Rings: The Flesh Towers – A funny looking midget with pointy ears goes on a mission to destroy the Cock Ring – a ring so powerful it gives midgets cocks the size of regular men – regular black men. Frightened by the awesome power of the ring, he and a few other midgets set out to destroy it, but of course, he can’t resist the temptation of trying it out along the way with a bunch of comely lasses (also with pointy ears).

About Shit – A retired old man adjusts to the recent death of his wife and his daughter’s upcoming marriage to a redneck by discovering the unholy pleasures of anal sex.

My Big Fat Greek Cock Ring – An awkward girl introduces her fiancé to her conservative Greek parents. Despite the friction, personality clashes, and culture shock, she sticks by her man and decides to work out the difficulties because she loves working the tziki sauce out of his big fat souvlaki.

Pull Me If You Can – A high school student travels America, impersonating a doctor, lawyer, and airline pilot in an elaborate plot to get stewardesses to jack him off.

2003-03-02T19:07:00.000-08:00

2003-02-28T17:09:00.000-08:00

Eulogy for Pablo McGuillicuddy

Minister: Thank you for coming, everyone. Just to let you know, this is the first eulogy I’ve ever given, so please bear with me. Hmm-hmm (clearing throat) … We are gathered here today to remember a very special young man. A young man who, uh, undoubtedly, brought warmth and humour to all he touched. A young man who will be sadly and sorely missed by his family and many friends. And that young man …. of course, is …uh… (shuffling index cards) … that young man is…. is Pablo…. Pablo uh…. (still shuffling, “McGuillicuddy” someone yells from the back). Yes, thank you! That young man is Pablo McGuillicuddy. Or, I guess was Pablo, uhh...McGuillicuddy (horrified shriek from the pews) … Well, I mean, that is to say… dear Pablo, as we all so often do, passed away gently into the kingdom of Heaven when he was run over by that Ford F-150. A, uh, a blue one, as I understand it. (More crying.) Oh no. No, my children! Do not mourn the tragic loss of this young life taken in, uh, before its prime. No! Instead, celebrate the fact that he is as we speak frolicking with our Lord Jesus Christ.. uh… who, might I add, is seated at the right hand of the Lord. Uhhh…, and as everyone knows, they are Father and Son… uh, the Lord Jesus and the Lord, that is. Not, uh, not Pablo and Jesus. Of course.

Uh, anyway, (flipping cards) .. right… uh, whenever a young life is cut so tragically short, we are left to ponder the possibilities of the potential that will never be. We may sit quietly alone and think to ourselves… uh… What would Pablo have been? What would he have done with his life? Would he have been a doctor? A lawyer? A rocket scientist? Would he have cured some disease? Or, would he have ended up like his older brother, Rocky (nods benevolently to Rocky in the front row) – thirty years old, living in his parents’ basement, getting drunk on weeknights, falling asleep on the couch with his pants around his ankles masturbating to pornography? (Rocky bursts out crying uncontrollably.) There there. I know. I know. It’s a hard time for all of us. We are left with all these unanswered questions. But I can tell you this without any exaggeration at all – Pablo McGuillicuddy was one of the brightest, most intelligent, most energetic, most interesting and all ‘round very finest young men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing in my entire life.

You know, it’s funny. I only had the pleasure of meeting Pablo once. It was last summer. I was outside, just out front here, tending to the church grounds – trimming the hedges – when I looked up and saw Pablo running past. He looked so young and full of life. I remember thinking to myself, perhaps he is running to a friend’s house. Or perhaps there’s some big game down at the field. I remember thinking about my own life – what I must have been like at his age – before the carefree world of youth gave way to the worries and responsibilities of the world. I remember thinking… Oh, Pablo … to be your age again! To have your whole life before you. I remember thinking how special a thing that is. And most of all, I remember thinking, my goodness, Pablo, your bum looks good in a pair of shorts.

(Mumbling from the pews….)

Uh, anyway, folks, the point of gathering here today is really twofold. First, we are here to say goodbye to a dear friend… brother …. and son … Pablo McGuillicuddy. He was a fine young man who deserves our fondest goodbyes. But the second reason we are gathered here... is to be together… in one place like this… to, uh, share with each other and take comfort in our common sorrow. We may take comfort in the fact that Pablo is in a better place now. We may take comfort in the fact that his life, though brief, made our own lives better in so many ways. And we may take comfort in the fact that he passed away without any pain. … Because, as we know, his head fell under the wheel of the truck and was crushed instantly. …. (Hysterical crying from the pews.) Yes, yes, I know it’s difficult – but the medical personnel have assured us that the twitching of his headless body on the pavement like that was purely a reaction of the nervous system and in no way was our dear sweet gentle friend Pablo in any pain whatsoever by that point.

So again, friends, we have these things, at least, to give us some comfort. ….. (looking up) Pablo McGuillicuddy … I hope you are in heaven. And I hope you know you are sorely missed. …. Thank you, everybody.

2003-02-18T16:02:00.000-08:00

The Birth of the Internet (1932 edition)

(A family parlour room, 1932. The warm evenings of summer are fading into the cooler evenings of autumn. Mother is sitting in her wingback chair, knitting a sweater in preparation for the coming winter. Father is reading the newspaper in his easy chair. Their daughter, Penny, is sitting on the sofa playing with a dolly. Their son, Junior, is in the other room. A perfectly typical day is just fading into a perfectly typical evening. Oh, yes – and by some unexplained error of history the Internet has not been invented yet.)

Penny: I’m everso bored.

Mother: Are you?

Penny: Everso.

Father: What’s this now?

Mother: Penny says she’s everso bored.

Father: Everso?

Mother: It would seem.

Penny: Indeed, Father, everso.

Father: Hmm… well, what is your brother doing? Perhaps you could play with him.

Mother: Hmm, that’s a good question… Junior?

Father: Junior? Where are you?

Mother: Junior?? Where could he be?

Junior (entering): Here I am. I was in the other room.

Father: Not doing anything bad, I hope. (Eyeing shovels on the wall.)

Junior (laughing): No, no, Father. I was working on a science experiment for school.

Father: A what now?

Junior: A “science experiment” – it’s the latest thing in school nowadays.

Father: You aren’t trying to trick me, are you? (eyeing shovels again)

Junior: No, Father!

Penny: No, Father, I remember they started science experiments last year when I was in Junior’s grade.

Father: (thinking) ……. That so, eh? ……….. All right then, what’s your experiment?

Junior: Well, I took our Commodore 64…..

Father: (interrupting) …. Our what now?

Mother: Oh, you remember the Commodore 64 – we got it for the kids last Christmas.

Father: Oh, yes…… Yes, of course… But I thought it was a sled of some kind.

Junior: Anyway, what I did for my experiment… I rigged up this old milk bottle (pointing) to this device on the computer (pointing) called the “hard drive”….

Father: Watch your tongue, boy! (eyeing the shovels again)

Junior: No! That’s what it’s called! Honest! Anyway, I then rigged a few pipe cleaners From the milk bottle to the telephone box.

Father: The what now?

Mother: The telephone box – you remember. It allows us to talk to people who don’t live in the house. Remember?

Father: Ah yes - $2 a year as I recall – what a rip-off… Alexander Graham Bell is such a conniver… such a schemer… he’s such a … a…

Penny: Such a capitalist… such a perfectly uncaring…

Mother: (throwing down her knitting) Oh, he’s such a little fucker!!

(An awkward silence, as all wait to see if Mother will speak again. Mother walks to the other side of the room and flops into a settee. She looks as though he is about to speak. Father eyes his shovel collection, kept hanging on the parlour wall, which makes Junior reconsider his explanation. He twiddles his little bowtie for a moment instead. Junior slouches against the doorway, and says): Anyway, we can communicate with people through the phone lines.

Penny: But we do that already anyway…..we talk to people on the phone one or two times every month.

Junior: I know! But this way we can exchange information – text, images, video - anything at all!

Father: Let me see that! (looking into the screen of the Commodore 64) ….. Son… my goodness……. There are naked women in here!!! Pornography!!

Junior: Well, it’s just a prototype….. I…. that is, I have to….

Father: And you used two of my pipecleaners!!!! (reaching for a shovel)

Junior: No!!! Father, I just…..

Father: (Taking a swing of the shovel, narrowly missing Junior’s head.) Come here, you little….

Penny (now sitting in front of the Commodore 64): Oh my goodness! There’s eversomuch to do!!

Mother: What’s that now?

Penny: I’m everso entertained! There’s so much to see and do on the Internet!!

Mother: Wait, Father!! Penny is entertained by this new invention!

Father (who stops chasing Junior): What’s that now? My goodness, she is entertained!

Penny: Why look, Mother, Father, there is so much to do!

Father: Indeed! Looks like you’re having a lot of fun, Penny!

Junior (who has sneaked out from behind the chair and is now standing next to his Father, looking at the computer with wide eyes) It’s such a fantastic invention – why, we can even look up information on huckleberry bushes!

Father: Not so fast, you. (clobbers Junior over the head with the shovel.)

2003-02-17T16:42:00.000-08:00

More Cape Breton Pick-Up Lines

(The first instalment of Cape Breton Pick-Up Lines incited more reaction than anything else written here so far. So, here are a few more.)

“Anyways, enough about how I got my fishin’ license – c’mon back to Ma-and-Da’s place and I’ll show you how to bait my trawl (*wink*).”

“I’m dirtier than Renwick Brook – and twice as long.”

“You know, they say Sand Lake is beautiful this time of year…” (best used any time of year)

“So, you smoke Players King Size Light, huh? ……. I’ll give ya fifty cents fer one.”

“Was it you or your mother I went home wit that time?”

“I read a story in the Cape Breton Post that said hot girls don’t wear pants anymore…. I guess they were wrong, were they?”

“That’s a lovely accent you got there. Is it Sydney Mines or North Sydney?”

“Did I mention earlier that you’re pretty enough to be on Christmas Daddies? Yeah? Well, I still mean it.”

(Said while waiting in line at Smooth Herman’s) “You know, ladies, they say cover charge tonight is five dollars and a blowjob. If you give me the blowjob, I’ll pay your five dollars.”

“You smell so pretty – like the field at the Big Pond Concert before everybody sits down.”

“Let’s get my Mainland connected to your Causeway.

“I thought you were beautiful ever since I used to deliver the Coastal Courier to your half of the company house.”

“I’ll fill ya wit more meat than a freezer in huntin' season.”

2003-02-16T17:18:00.000-08:00

Thoughts of an Elderly Man at the Public Library, Discovering Internet Pornography for the First Time

Ahhh, here we go… I’m on the internet. You know, I hear you can do a lot of things on here. Lots of information to discover. They say they can fit whole books into computers nowadays. Amazing! Anyway, I thought of a few things to ask the internet. I think the first thing I will ask is about my hip. (*click*) It's been bothering me since I had that operation. .... Hey! I’m off to a great start! It already says “Yahoo!” I guess I got it right. Geez, these things are smart, these computers! Now I just type in this little block here what I’m looking for… (looking at the keyboard)… H… there we go, there’s the first letter, now I just have to find the I…. there it is…. And the P… now, where in the…. Where’s the… P – ah, there you are… now I just (*click*) and that should do it. I wonder what it will say about getting over hip surgery. I hope it has something on here to… ah, there we go… now I just have to click the parts in blue to get to the pages with information on them. I think that’s what the lady said before I sat down… Hmmm.. OK, let’s see what this first one says… “LUCY’S … LUSCIOUS … HIPS.” Ahh, there we go… must be some kind of book about hip problems by someone named Lucy. Probably a doctor or something. All right, we’ll go there. (squinting) … Now where’s that thing I click with? …. Ahhh, there it is… (moving the cursor) now I just click on the blue and (*click*) Hey! It seems to be working. She said it might take a second for the pages to come on the screen, so I think… Dear Sweet Baby Jesus Christ!!! Why doesn’t the doctor have any clothes on?? (looking around to see if anyone can see the screen) What is this now?! Well, I can certainly see her hips! Maybe it’s some kind of medical illustration…I guess it must be… I’ve seen those in magazines at the doctor’s office – you might catch a glimpse of something you shouldn’t see, but it’s only to explain about some disease or something. Oh well, I guess that’s what this must be. What does it say there, now? That must be the explanation… “Click… here to … ENTER LUCY’S HIPS” … well, I guess that’s where I wanted to go all along, wasn’t it? Let’s see here now… (*click*) … we’ll see what that brings up. I wonder what kind of hip disease makes you sit with your legs spread so wide apart like that… by the look on her face, it seems pretty painful. I hope… oh, here we go, it’s done… well, there’s Lucy again… Oh, and she’s wearing a nurse’s uniform this time, so I guess I must be at the right place… Let’s see what it says here now (adjusting bifocals)… “Are you feeling HOT?” … Well, sometimes there is heat at the joint of my hip… especially on the right side. And especially if I’ve been sitting still for a long time. But some Ben Gay usually takes care of it. I’ll read on, I guess….. “Are you LOOKING FOR SOME ACTION?” … Well, it would be nice to be able to go for a walk every now and then, and not have to worry about whether my hip will give out on me. I used to be able to walk to the corner store and back twice a day – to get the paper in the morning, and pipe tobacco in the afternoon. Oh well. … What else does it say? ….. “Are you feeling JUICY” …. Ah, thankfully no - it just swells up – doesn’t gather any fluid or anything. And the scars from the operation healed up pretty well – no puss or infection or anything, so I guess I don’t have to worry about that one. Let’s see the next one .. “like LUCY?” … huh, what does that… Oh, I see – it’s “Are you feeling JUICY like LUCY?” …. Ohhh, I see – that’s the kind of hip disease she has. My god, that’s terrible! If you look close enough at the medical pictures, you can actually see the discharge! … Makes me feel sort of lucky because my condition isn’t that bad. Poor Lucy. I remember Ethel across the hall fell and broke her hip last year. I wonder if she went through this. … Ahh well, still nothing on pain in the hip joint. … Let’s see what the next one says …. “Are you HURTING for IT?” Ahhhh, that must be me there. This one must be about joint pain. It hurts when I walk, hurts when I sit – hurts like hell when I get up in the morning, let’s see what they have to (*click*) say about this… hopefully, it will tell me something… Awww, look at that – it wants me to provide credit card information. I guess they’ll just send you the whole book that way, and you can look it up yourself. Makes sense. But wait – there’s a telephone number … (squinting, adjusting bifocals) I guess that must be an information line or something. Good! I’ll call when I get home… I hope I can remember the number…. “1-976-HOT-HIPS”…. Hey – why are the librarians pointing at me…. Now they’re coming over… I hope one of them has a pen so I can write this down….

2003-02-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

Blacklist of Offensive Words

I find the following words and phrases personally offensive. An explanation is provided for each. Use of words included on the blacklist is not encouraged in civilized society.

“pork” - What a disgusting word. It starts off with that P – expelled in a violent burst – and before you know it, the whole word is in your mouth. “Pork” - ending with that equally violent harsh K sound – knocking against your bicuspids and bursting like a disgusting little grenade. The word really needs another syllable to take some of the edge off. “Pork” – it sounds like an insult. It easily could have been a swear word – “What the pork are you looking at?” and my favourite, “Pork off.” Even when I think about saying the word, I get a bad taste in my mouth. Truly, the word “pork” is one of the unfortunate plagues of humankind. The meat which bears this name, however, is absolutely delectable.

“fabulous” - Unquestionably, the worst adjective. If there were an Adjective Beauty Pageant, the word “fabulous” wouldn’t even be invited. Oh sure, it doesn’t seem so bad when it’s uttered flippantly by elderly English ladies or fuh-laming gay men – but that leaves most of us out in the cold. There are not many nouns who would knowingly associate with this effeminate little adjective. Nouns appearing together in the same sentence with “fabulous” point to each other and say, “Nooo-ho-noooo… it was modifying you, not me. You’re the fabulous one.”

“feet” - The use of the word “feet” to describe a measure of distance is unacceptable. It makes me think disgusting thoughts. Example: “How far away is that tree? Hmmm… I’d guess about a hundred feet…. Yup… if I lined up one hundred feet heel to toe, they would stretch all the way to that tree. One hundred feet. One hundred smelly disgusting body parts, lined end to end, pressed against one another all the way from here to the tree, complete with calluses, and crusty toe nails, and fungi, and veiny scaly clumps of flesh.” Thankfully, this is the only unit of measure to use such a disgusting term. History has narrowly avoided the following exchange: “How do you get to the gas station? Well, go down this road about a hundred feet, take a left turn onto the road by the tree, go down that road for about fifty or sixty boogers, take a right, then go for about another pustule, pustule and a half, til you see the gas station – it’s about one or two diarreahs off the main road. Can’t miss it.”

“paper towel” - This is the simplest name for any object ever created. You think the inventor looked at it after he finished the first prototype and said, “Well, now let’s see…. It’s a towel… it’s made of paper…. Aww, fuck it! I’m going to call it a paper towel!” I’m glad all of our objects don’t have names like this. A knife would be a food cutter, pants would be leg and ass coverings, computers would be pornography machines. I’d like to set up a committee to establish a real name for paper towel. And after that, we can look into lawnmower and picture frame.

“salutation” - Sure, the word means ‘warm greeting’, but it sounds like a sexually transmitted disease. As in: “Frosh week last year was so incredible. I hooked up with those two bisexual chicks – it was so fuckin’ amazing. Of course, I contracted salutation, but a shot of penicillin cleared it right up.”

“grandiose” - For many years I thought this word was pronounced “grand-WAHS”. People would often laugh at me when I used the word in conversation. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, I’m the Magnificent Bastard. I’m a funny sonofabitch. Of course people laughed at me. Then one day a well-meaning friend took me aside and said, “You know, that word you just used is actually pronounced grand-EE-ose.” At first I was confused. Then, after it sunk in, I was angry that a word could fool me for so long. A small collection of letters and syllables had outwitted me. The under-hanging portion of the G seemed to be smiling at me, mocking me, from its smug position as leader of the word. Well, I’ve got you now, you bastard… you’re on the Blacklist.

2003-02-11T18:33:00.000-08:00

Leonard Cohen’s Grade Three Valentine’s Day Wishes

Dearest Marianne:

That red crayon in your hand – that phallic monster, that spike through the palm of my little blond saviour, that physical proof when love is manifest, the meaning clasping the metaphor, my love – only to scratch the red into a sparrow’s breast. Meet me by the monkey bars at recess.

Sincerely,
L. Cohen

Dearest Suzanne,

You caught my eye at naptime. But then you mocked my little famous blue raincoat when it got torn at the shoulder. Your coyness had me wandering in a wilderness of scrapbooks. I was so occupied shaping the skin over my drum and the strings on my harp that I didn’t notice that you had come to me, graceful as a Viennese waltz, softly as a cherub’s dimple, to trade with me your peanut butter sandwich. Meet me by the swing set at recess.

Sincerely,
L. Cohen

Dearest Annabelle,

With your name upon my lips I shall never go hungry. You were the first of many women who have given me shelter in their barracks. The frontiers were my prison, but with your fingerprints softly upon me in the shadows, I learned to love another. And I learned to play patty-cake. Meet me by the merry-go-round at recess.

Sincerely,
L. Cohen

Dearest Chelsea,

I remember you well from the old carousel. You were talking so brave and so sweet. Your voice in my head, like the toys on my bed, while the schoolbus waits in the street. I need you. I don’t need you. Meet me behind the school at recess.

Sincerely,
L. Cohen

Dearest Teacher,

You danced on the day you taught, my theoretical angel. I was walking the schoolyard looking for a 25-cent bed of water, but I will sleep tonight with your homework curled in my scribblers like rainbows on vacation. You brought me your comfort and later you brought me my juice box. I’ve been where you’re hanging, I think I can see how you’re pinned. Meet me after school – I’m going to be busy at recess.

Sincerely,
L. Cohen

2003-02-10T18:12:00.000-08:00

The Birth of Fire (1932 edition)

(A family parlour room, 1932. The warm evenings of summer are fading into the cooler evenings of autumn. Mother is sitting in her wingback chair, knitting a sweater in preparation for the coming winter. Father is reading the newspaper in his easy chair. Their daughter, Penny, is sitting on the sofa playing with a dolly. Their son, Junior, is in the other room. A perfectly typical day is just fading into a perfectly typical evening. Oh, yes – and by some unexplained error of history, fire has not been invented yet.)

Penny: Why, Father, it’s ever so cold.

Father: (thinks for a moment) Why, yes, Penny. Yes, I believe it is sort of cold in here.

Mother: Why, I was about to say that myself.

Father: Mother, have you left a window open?

Mother: Why, no, dear. (louder) Junior, did you leave a window open?

Junior: (entering) Aw shucks, Mother. It’s eversomuch easier to watch the huckleberry bushes grow if the window is open.

Mother: Go back in there and close it, son. We’re feeling chilly.

Junior: Aw shucks, Mother…

Father: Now, Junior, you do what your mother tells you, or I’m afraid I’ll have to beat the life out of you with one of my shovels again.

Junior: Yessir… (exits)

Mother: (laughing) Remember the last time you beat him with one of your shovels?

(All laughing) Penny: I remember!

Father: Yesss, it was rather comical. I had just finished beating him with the shovel and (laughing) remember, mother, you beckoned us because dinner was ready – gosh, you can make sandwiches! - and when I turned around to see what you wanted (all laughing) *BOP* the handle of the shovel hit poor Junior right in the head.

Mother: Oh, I remember! And the funniest part was when Doc told us he probably had a concussion!

Father: Ahhhh yes… (still chuckling) Just goes to show, you can’t be too careful when you’re laying a beating with a shovel.

Junior: (re-entering the parlour, pouting): There.

Mother: Thank you, son. You know Father worked very hard to earn enough money so that we could buy the new kind of windows – the ones that open. You musn’t abuse your window privileges, son.

Junior: (still pouting) I don’t see why we have windows that open if I’m not allowed to open them….

Father: (raising his voice) Boy, I’ll have no sass from you.

Mother: What happened last week when you talked like that in school?

Penny: (excited) Oh! I know! Teacher took off a boot and beat him with it!

Father: That’s right, Boy. And I guarantee you - my shovels are a lot harder than that nun’s boot.

(An awkward silence, as all wait to see if Junior will speak again. Junior walks to the other side of the room and flops into a settee. He looks as though he is about to speak. Father eyes his shovel collection, kept hanging on the parlour wall, which makes Junior reconsider speaking. He twiddles his little bowtie for a moment instead. Junior slowly stands again, slouches in the opposite doorway, and says): Can’t I open it just for….

Father: (rising quickly, tossing his newspaper onto his easy chair and reaching for his shovel) That’s it!!

Penny: (as Father and Junior race around the room, knocking over the coffee table) Awright! Junior’s gonna get the shovel!!

Father: I’m gonna get you, Boy!

Junior: (laughing, as he climbs over his father’s easy chair and hides behind it. Father takes a mighty swing of the shovel, breaking off the arm of the chair.) I’m too fast for you, Father!

Mother: Get him, Father! Get that little fucker!!!
(Everyone gasps, stops, and turns to look at Mother with mouth agape. As he turns, Father’s shovel strikes another shovel on the wall, creating a spark which falls into the newspaper on his broken easy chair. Mother looks back at her family, the horrible word she has just uttered still hung in the air like last week’s laundry. She is about to speak something of an explanation when she notices smoke rising from the easy chair.)
What’s that!?

Father: (looking down at the chair in amazement) Why, I… I don’t… (flames grow and begin licking at them as they stand too close) Why it’s…. it’s so…

Penny: It’s so warm, Father!!

Mother: Oh my goodness! It is! This thing is heat itself!

Father: If we can harness this heat, we shall never be cold again!

Mother: Oh, won’t it be wonderful!

Penny: We’ll be warm even without the sun!

Father: Indeed, we will!

Junior (who has sneaked out from behind the chair and is now standing next to his Father, looking at the fire with wide eyes) We can leave the windows open and stare the huckleberry bushes!

Father: Not so fast, you. (clobbers Junior over the head with the shovel)

2003-01-19T06:31:00.000-08:00

Protesters Inc.

Well, folks, we did it! This is our first newsletter (hopefully the first of many). The Association of Protesters for Equality (APE) is up and running, and we have several projects in the works already (more on that later). As you all know, we APEs are a dedicated group committed to equality for everyone and everything. Our philosophy is simple: “Nothing is better than anything else. Nothing is worse than anything else. Everything is essentially the same.” We believe the world must reflect these three truths and we strive to effect that change through various rallies, information sessions, and of course, protests.

Our first order of business (to be settled at our next meeting), is to consider whether the Half-Caf Hazelnut Latte or the Creamy Mint Roast Latte will be the official drink of the Association. Personally, I think the Hazelnut Latte sucks, but I still have to put it to a membership vote under our by-laws. (Vote Mint!)

Getting to the projects, here they are:

- Recognizance has revealed that the Mayor endorses all by-laws with a black pen. We APEs believe this leads to unequal treatment of multi-coloured inks. We will demand fair and equitable treatment of all varieties of ink, regardless of their colour. Our guerrilla division has stockpiled a supply of Molotov cocktails for our protest outside City Hall, which will take place on the next sunny day.

- A newspaper article last week stated that three quarters of the clothing created by ACME Clothing Co. are made in sweatshops in the Philippines where the workers are paid pennies per day and work in unsafe conditions. I propose APE does the following: 1) a boycott on all clothes made in the Philippines, under which members will buy almost no more clothing made there, and 2) a loud and boisterous protest outside the newspaper offices.

- Amongst the Gluckgluck tribe of Puapa New Guinea, a rare medicinal plant called a “flavindal” is nearing extinction. The tribe use this medicinal plant to cure all manner of ailments – from the common cold to assisting in child birth. Our research reveals that the flavindal will likely be extinct by the year 2093. Despite the urgency of this situation, neither the Nestle Chocolate Company nor Canada Post has taken a stance on this matter and no assistance seems forthcoming. We have sent a letter to Nestle and the local post office, demanding to know their respective positions on this matter. As we have not yet received a response, our Graffiti Division will be dispatched to each location to scrawl clever socially conscious messages across the front of these buildings. Failing that, I suggest loud protests.

As your President, I hope all these projects will receive the required three-quarters majority vote of those present, or two-thirds of all members (regardless of attendance), or a simple majority in which non-attending members are represented by proxy or a properly-constituted waiver thereof [according to by-law 239(16)]. Remember - fight the power!

And finally, an internal order of business: At our last meeting, during discussion of some of the upcoming projects, some members in support of certain projects suggested that other members not in support of those projects were less supportive of those projects. Great offence was taken at the suggestion that those not in support of a project could be construed as less supportive. This, of course, violates our three main principles. In order for the APEs to accomplish anything, we must agree that nothing is better than anything else; nothing is worse than anything else; and everything is the same as everything else. That means being supportive of every initiative, even if you don’t support it.

I look forward to a day when all APEs can stroll down the street, walking upright, proud in the knowledge that our work to eliminate differences has made the world a different place – a place with no differences, and indifference for all.

Sincerely,
Roland A. Granola,
APE President.

2003-01-18T09:08:00.000-08:00

Open Letter to an Old Flame

As you may have noticed (or written yourself), just about every blog out there has an entry similar to this one – the open letter to the old flame. I realize these open letters are the heartfelt wounds of the authors, painfully bled into their keyboard and published to their blog for all the world to see – a festering confession of when and how the blisters of their relationship finally burst. Often these entries are quite powerful, particularly if you know the people involved. If you don’t know them, however, it can be just hilarious. For your consideration, The Magnificent Bastard presents the following:

Old Flame:

Well well, it’s finally come to this, has it? I heard from So-and-So that you said Such-and-Such about me because you think I said This-and-That to YouKnowWho. I can’t believe you would say that after everything we had together. Don’t you remember? The way we used to watch the sunrise together? Or the way I brought you chicken soup when you were sick? Or the way I’d eat the red M&Ms because you don’t like them? Or the way you could make me soooo happy – just by wiggling your little pinky finger into my ass? I miss all that – but now it’s gone forever.

I remember the first time I saw you. You were being carried out of the bar by two of your friends because you’d had too much to drink. It was so cute, the way you couldn’t walk. The puke on your clothes was like sweet ambrosia to me. You stumbled over the curb, and it made your big boobies bounce. I knew then I was in love.

Love is about accepting the other person’s faults. And I accepted your faults. I loved you even though I knew you bit your fingernails. Even though you always interrupted other people when they were talking. Even though you sucked off the whole hockey team. I said to myself, “You love this girl – either you can turn her away because of this, or you can be an adult, and accept the fact that every once in a while she likes to suck off hockey teams.” So that’s what I did. And every time you cheated on me, we talked it over and I still accepted you. I still took you back. Even after Jerry… and Bob (what were you thinking??!) … Roger and Bill (hey, you were all drunk) … Tim… Danny… Danny’s little brother… my dad. And I took you back every time. Because I loved you.

I’ll never forget the day we broke up. I showed up at your place to surprise you. I was bringing you your favourite flowers. A dozen long-stemmed dandelions (I’d personally picked them myself through the cracks in the sidewalks in the way to your house). And a quilt with your name on it that it took me three years to complete. I was going to surprise you, so I didn’t knock – I just went in. The living room was empty. I thought I heard your voice in the kitchen… I thought to myself (as I used to think to myself while working on the quilt for an hour every night) I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees this! I walked through the living room, nearing the doorway of the kitchen – and in that moment my heart was filled with more love for you than the joy of a thousand Christmas mornings. I looked into the kitchen. And there you were… sucking off the hockey team.

At first I was surprised. I mean, how did the entire hockey team get into your kitchen, anyway? How come that left-winger had his dick in your mouth? I was confused. At first I was upset. Even the equipment manager was there. I mean, the equipment manager? He’s not even on the team, for chrissake! But, I calmed myself down. I was sure you had a reasonable explanation. … But before I could even forgive you again, you told me it wasn’t working anymore and it was over. All the air expelled from my lungs. My eyes welled up with tears. I fled from your house in a blizzard of broken dandelions, as you were wiping cum off your face with my precious quilt. I ran down your front steps and out into the street, crying hysterically. That’s when the bread truck hit me.

I was in the hospital for three months. I broke both my legs, both my arms, my collarbone, all of my ribs, and fractured my skull. But all of that was nothing compared to the pain of my broken heart. Make no mistake, Old Flame – I’m more than ready to let you go. Three months in the hospital, and you never visited. You never sent anything. You never even called me. Even though I called you every day, and left you messages. And don’t tell me your mother forgot to give you the messages – because one time, two months ago, I asked her if she gave my messages to you and she said yes. So don’t even try that.

I am moving on with my life. I am becoming a better person without you. I have lots of friends and I’m enjoying my life. I joined a book club last week. And next week, I might watch a TV show about skydiving. That’s right, Old Flame. I’m doing things with my life. I’m going places.

Even though I once loved you, I can now say without exaggeration that you are the most selfish, pig-headed, unreasonable, skankiest, ugliest bitch on the face of the earth. I hope your future boyfriend learns to like the taste of goalie semen in your kisses. I hope you get cancer, ebola, AIDS, and the chicken pox. I hope you die a lonely death and maggots eat away every last bit of your rotting slutty flesh. Fuck you, Old Flame. I hope I never see you again, you conniving whore.

Love,
Scorned Lover

P.S. Call me, OK?

2003-01-17T14:34:00.000-08:00

I haven't seen you in a while, so here are two (shorter) posts at once:

Uniquely Cape Breton Pick Up Lines

“No really, me and my buddies were talking, and your friend is the ugly one.”

“Christ almighty… if only we could be sure we weren’t related.”

“Excuse me, miss. I think B-6 just gave you Bingo.”

“No, I’m serious now. You were a real looker before you got knocked up.”

“No, I swear t’ God, bye! I’m from the mainland!”

“I shoot darts wit your brudder.”

“Hey, wait! You look just like that one I picked up at the Event that time.”

“You’re pretty enough to be on Christmas Daddies.”

“You know, I got a whole box of glow in the dark condiments back at my place.”

“Say… didn’t I run into you one time down at Manpower?”

“Lemme buy you a drink, dear. My check come in today."

“How would you like to see Giant McAskill?” (said while tapping belt buckle)

Miner Retraining
A translation guide for the business world:

“Get to your flyin’ fuck” - (Oh, really?)

“G’way witchya.” - (Oh, really?)

“He don’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out.” - (He’s economically disadvantaged.)

“It’s cold enough to freeze the nuts off the Seal Island Bridge.” - (Chilly, isn’t it?)

“I need to piss so bad my back teeth are floatin’” - (Excuse me for a moment.)

“He musta went for a shit an’ the hogs gottem.” - (He’s been gone a while.”)

“Like fuck!” - (I disagree)

“Lick me where I shit!” - (I disagree.)

2003-01-11T19:46:00.000-08:00

Explaining “Funny”

The sad fact is - some people have no sense of humour. This is a disability more crippling than olfactory deprivation, blindness, deafness, or even the clap. You know the people I mean – the ones who just don’t “get” it. While the crowd of normal people shakes uncontrollably in laughter, the Don’tGets shift uneasily, wondering what just happened. They can’t tell a punchline from a pretzel. It’s an affliction. But help is available. The Magnificent Bastard urges you to consider the following:

Academics generally agree that there are three main theories of humour – superiority theory, incongruity theory, and relief theory. (See: Monro, D. H. "Theories of Humor." Writing and Reading Across the Curriculum 3rd ed. Laurence Behrens and Leonard J. Rosen, eds. Glenview, IL: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1988. 349-55) Although no single theory can explain all types of humour – I will assure you by illustration that all humour can be explained by one or more of these categories.

Superiority Theory - Simply stated – we laugh at those less fortunate than we are. The object of the humour (brunt of the joke) has some failing, defect, or disadvantage which makes them inferior and which we can exploit for our own entertainment. This explains why we laugh when the schoolyard bully mocks the kid with the speech impediment (I speak so much better than him!), or why we laugh when someone gets hit in the face with a pie (Hey – he has pie all over his face! And I don’t!) As an illustration, I’m willing to venture a bet that most people reading this will laugh at the following sentence fragment:

“A retarded mongoloid walks into a bar….”

The most basic level of humour in the above comment can be reduced to – “He’s a retarded mongoloid! And I’m not!” Often, however, the source of humour combines superiority with one of the other elements of humour, most often incongruity (see below).

One of the most common applications of the superiority theory can be found in satire. The satirist will often choose a particular distinctive fault or defect of the subject person and exaggerate it for dramatic effect. For example, Darryl Hammond’s impression of Al Gore – exaggerating his stiff posture and repeating the phrase “lock box”; Dana Carvey’s impression of Ross Perot – with prosthetic ears, and high-pitched nasal voice with a thick southern drawl; and Don Ferguson’s high-pitched repetition of Preston Manning’s “Refoooooorm”, to name a few.

Incongruity Theory - Much of what we consider “funny” in our daily lives can be attributed to incongruity. Most jokes that we hear, tell, and re-tell, rely on a punchline that exposes the incongruity of the situation and creates the source of humour. Take, for example, the following joke (which I’m sure everyone has heard):

“Two sausages are sitting in a frying pan. The first sausage looks to the other and says, “Geez, it’s getting really hot in here.” The second sausage looks at him and says, “Holy shit! A talking sausage!”

Why does this “work” so well? It is a study in incongruity. The joke is only three sentences long. The first sentence establishes our expectations – we envision two sausages in a frying pan. The second sentence then invites us to suspend our disbelief when the first sausage starts talking. We now accept the narrator’s assertion that these are talking sausages, and anticipate the response of the second sausage. The third sentence is the punchline – it points out to us the incongruity inherent in the reality we have accepted thus far in the narrative. And that’s the humour.

Likewise, my earlier example: “A retarded mongoloid walks into a bar…” also introduces a possible incongruity. The listener will picture a handicapped person entering a bar. If the listener’s imagination paints the picture of a bar as a crowded singles bar, an incongruity is created. Such incongruities are the basis for most movies found the comedy section of the video store – a popular variation being the fish-out-of-water incongruity (Back to the Future, Blast from the Past – time incongruity; Mrs. Doubtfire, Tootsie – gender incongruity; Trading Places – socio-economic incongruity).

Proof of the incongruity theory can be found in Mozart’s “musical joke”. It is a piece of music in which the repetition of notes creates an expectation in the listener. Mozart creates the humourous incongruity of replacing the expected notes with startlingly different notes. For example, a high squeak of a note when the listener is expecting a deep thud to complete the repeating series of notes. Essentially, it proves that you don’t need to use language or vision to be funny – simply by creating an incongruity which defies expectation.

Relief Theory - This theory of humour is largely based on Sigmund Freud’s Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. Essentially, this theory states that some things are funny because we aren’t allowed to laugh at them. Society represses our natural impulses and reactions – so that some things become an improper source of humour. While the impetus for the laughter may be explained through the superiority or incongruity theories, the extent of the observer’s reaction is proportional to the relief it brings from societal repression.

To return to my earlier example: “A retarded mongoloid walks into a bar…” Perhaps funny on a superiority level (handicapped), perhaps funny on an incongruity level (entering a bar). However, the prevailing social attitude is that it is improper to find humour in such a source. The relief theory explains why you find it funny that someone would begin a joke by describing a person as a “retarded mongoloid”. For some listeners, the mere use of the phrase itself will be funny because it is incongruous with current societal norms even to tell a joke dealing with that subject matter (regardless of the quality of the joke itself).

Soooo, there you have it. The next time you tell a joke at a party and some egghead just doesn’t get it – you can turn to him or her and say, “You see, friend, sausages lack the physical capacity for speech! And that situational incongruity is the source of the humour and thus the reason why we’re all laughing. All of us except you…. Just go get me a drink, you retarded mongoloid.”

2003-01-10T19:08:00.000-08:00

Prince Escalus

King Escalus: Jester, hast thou seen mine son?

Jester: My liege, your sun is my sun and the sun of the whole kingdom of Verona. It doth rise daily, lest mine eyes beguile me.

King: Beguile you, good Jester? Surely there is some feather-weighted quality to your oration. For I hardly think one so motley could be gile.

Jester: Ahhh, there is wit in your sweater, good King. As a rabbit do the buttonhole or the cooper do the barrel.

King: (hesitating) …. What the fuck are you talking about, good Jester? Rabbit do the buttonhole? What? Wit in my sweater? Dost thou smoke the grass of the merry that is juanna? I say have you seen mine son, the prince?

Jester: Have I sir? Indeed I have, from his suckling disposition on the queen’s ample nipple to the very noble countenance that presents itself in the entrance passage just this moment. (exeunt Jester)

King: Ahhh, there you are, my son, Prince Escalus, how dost the day find you?

Prince Escalus: The day doth find me as the cuckold do the daisy or the worm the buzzard’s castaway morsels. The sky’s blue clarity doth betray mine heartfelt sorrow.

King: Huh? What’s with the flowery talk? I told your mother we shouldn’t have sent you to that damn sissy school.

Prince Escalus: Indeed father, the eye of the emperor belies no subtly. My chronic disposition indeed has connexion with Wittenberg.

King: Wittenberg? I should have known! Dost thou know the tuition thine loving father and mother pays for your matriculation in Wittenberg? What ails you?

Prince Escalus: Why, father, dost thou recall the room mate of mine dorm room? The chap from Denmark of which I spoke?

King: Indeed I do, son! The Prince of Denmark, no less. I used to play golf with his father before he died of that ear infection, poor fellow.

Prince Escalus: Indeed, good Prince Hamlet.

King: Well, what of him?

Prince Escalus: (sighs mournfully) I have recently received news that he is as the food of tulips.

King: Come again?

Prince Escalus: I say, he is six foot upon the trail to the underworld.

King: (pausing, brow furled) He’s what now?

Prince Escalus: He is worm to sparrow; he is soil to the roses; he is as the dead nit is to the head of hair when said head has been de-nitted.

King: (staring blankly)

Prince Escalus: He is dead, Father! As dead as the pigeon collected by the pigeon collector upon the death of the aforesaid pigeon! Ohhhh calamity! (weeping)

King: There, there, son, (consoling him)… I have just the thing to remedy your sorrowful disposition!

Prince Escalus: Father, nothing can possibly set the proper tack of my mournful ship. The noble Hamlet and I would sometimes lay as the horse do the donkey before the coming of the mule.

King: Huh?

Prince Escalus: Oh, I know it’s a shock to you, father, but the fact is, Prince Hamlet and I, when we were roommates, used to make as the french fry doth do as the french fry doth pass betwixt the onion ring when the other boys are asleep.

King: You’re saying you, uh….

Prince Escalus: Yes… Prince Hamlet and I…. pillows were bitten…. he called me “Ophelia”, I called him “Tybalt’….. it was sweaty man-love, Father!

King: (after a horrified pause)…. We must never speak of this. But I have a monarchial duty for you which may service your lift from these doldrums…

Prince Escalus: Oh father, tell me! Will it satiate my appetite for gay sex?

King: (slapping forehead) Just listen to me… it’s a very manly job. I assure you, you will command the respect of the citizens of Verona. You will command power over others.

Prince Escalus: Perhaps. But I shall be as the daffodil dost when….

King: Quit that shit! Jesus! Listen… there are these two families – the Montagues and the Capulets...

Prince Escalus: Of Capulets’ Hardware Store?

King: The very same. Now, I would like you to enforce the peace between them.

Prince Escalus: The peace?

King: Indeed. You know - Ancient grudge break to new mutiny, and all that. Oh, and if their kids start to fall in love, nail them for it.

Prince Escalus: What dost thou mean, father?

King: Uhhhh, I dunno, send the boy to Mantua if you must…

Prince Escalus: Really Father? Exile?

King: Suuuuuure… once you throw your royal weight around, you’ll be back to normal in no time. You’ll forget all about that Prince Hamlet guy and his recent… uh, passing….

Prince Escalus: Dost thou think, Father?

King: I know so… say, look here! (looking out the window) It’s Gregory and Abraham… looks like some thumb-biting is going on. A perfect start for you! Go down and bust them up!

Prince Escalus: Dost thou think, Father?

King: I know so, son! Go on! Have fun! Show some arbitrary power. Citizens dig that. Especially citizens who are also chicks!

Prince Escalus: Thank you, Father! (exeunt)

(enter Jester, laughing) Jester: Well, my liege, it seems the heir dost prefer the sausage to the taco, eh? Lest mine eyes beguile me!

King: Ahhh, well. No worries, Jester. So did his father.

2003-01-09T17:51:00.000-08:00

Follicle Parliament

Speaker: The member from the Crown has the floor.

Crown: Thank you, Mr. Speaker. As I’m sure my honourable colleagues are aware, we in this government have been able to fend off several uprisings from renegade groups since the mid-20s. You may remember back to 25 and the tense eleventh-hour negotiations with representatives from the Beltway, in which we successfully negotiated to save almost two hundred follicles at Hairline Base. This caused great tension with the government of Whitebrow, which was intent on finally expanding into our territory. But, we successfully negotiated a peace whereby the Beltway would begin a gradual expanse, which indirectly lead to more infrastructure growth in Whitebrow, and preserved the peace and livelihood of follicles everywhere. Mr. Speaker, we have fought the good fight, but concessions must now be made. We have negotiated an agreement by which three hundred follicles will be lost over the next thirty months. Bill 54 gives government administrative power to determine the manner and nature of follicle loss – thus allowing for the best overall esthetic through the centralized decision-making centres of government. An even-handed approach is called for. Mr. Speaker, I urge my honourable colleagues to support this Bill. Thank you.

Speaker: Thank you. Honourable member from Hairline Base…

Hairline Base: Thank you Mr. Speaker. What we have here today is a mutton dressed in sheep’s clothing. The Honourable Member from the Crown would have this House believe the government wants this executive power for equal distribution of the deleterious impact. But let’s be serious. It has long been rumoured that the two candidates for follicle impact from this settlement are Hairline Base… and the Crown. (hissing and heckling in disbelief)… That’s right, Mr. Speaker. The writing is on the scalp. The Honourable Member from the Crown wants this executive power in order to guard against loss in his own constituency! (more hissing) If this Bill is passed, there will be disastrous consequences for Hairline Base. In this age, we have at best a tense peace with Whitebrow. If this Bill passes, there will be immediate weakness in Hairline Base. Within months, Hairline Base will lose its face-top view. The Whitebrow will drive the very follicles we represent all the way back to the Member’s precious Crown, and dare I say … beyond! (clapping, desk banging)

Speaker: Thank you. Again, Honourable Member from the Crown.

Crown: Mr. Speaker, the honourable member from Hairline Base would have you believe this is some nefarious plot to obliterate that constituency and in the process bring about the end of the follicle as we know it. In fact, if the member had taken the time to read the Bill, he would realize that we have developed a strategic plan of implementation. Our legislative committee found the answer to the distribution question in the philosophical tomes of the ancient Greeks – the cradle of democracy. Using the geometrical logic of the ancient Greek esthetic sensibilities, infused with the pathos of our own unique circumstances, we have created a mathematical theorem which will reduce the matter to a question of mere calculation. We call this distribution method the “Grecian Formula”. The member can find the full formula explained in the Bill at section V.(o)(5).

Speaker: Thank you. Honourable Member from Sideburn-and-Armpits.

SB: Blah blah blah. More rhetoric from the powers at Hairline Base and the Crown. We should be focusing on the proven modern growth areas, like this (holding up document) Mr. Speaker… fellow Honourable Members…. I’d like to table the Report of the Standing Committee on Goatees….

2003-01-08T15:25:00.000-08:00

Stages of Drunkenness

It’s 7:30 pm. No one is at your house yet, but you think to yourself what the fuck! I’ll get a start on a beer before the crowd arrives. You’re in your finest threads, hair carefully in place, you have the minty freshness of freshly-brushed teeth. You’re worried about things like – I hope I have enough ice for everyone; I hope I remembered to clean everything; I better put my cock ring away.

It’s 8:32pm. You’re just cracking your fourth beer when there’s a knock at your door and the first guests arrive. You think to yourself: Hey, people came to my party! Shucks, I guess people really do like me. You’ve got the stereo playing in the background at a conversational level, directing guests to the cupboard with the glasses, making witty comments on various conversation pieces you’ve carefully pre-arranged. You’re worried about things like – I hope everyone likes the music I’m playing; I wonder if I’m wearing too much cologne; did I remember to take the dirty towels out of the bathroom?

It’s 9:50pm. You’re downing what must be somewhere between your seventh and eleventh beer. You tell that hilarious dirty joke about the cowboy and the circus midget. You think to yourself: Holy fuck, I’m funny. There are still some guests arriving. You remember to break out the party mix you bought that afternoon for the party. You’re thinking: I’m downing this beer like water, and it isn’t really affecting me… very much; “Can I get anyone a drink while I’m in the kitchen?”; and holy shit, Greg’s girlfriend has big tits.

10:35pm. It would be reckless to offer an hypothesis as to how many beer have been consumed to this point; but you don’t give a fuck because there’s still lots in the fridge. I mean, you and three other people are drinking the same brand anyway, so there’s practically an endless supply. You think to yourself: did I just say ‘does anyone drink a want in the kitchen’?; that guy is such an asshole – why did I invite him?; and do I hear a bang from the apartment upstairs?

11:20pm You’re on your third drink – vodka and kool aid. Just the crystals. On a trip to the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror, realize that you have sweat stains under your arms and that your hair is dishevelled. This temporary distraction makes you piss into the little bathroom garbage bucket. You no longer think to yourself. You are confident enough in yourself to give flight to your thoughts without the hindrance of reflection. You hear yourself say: “Sooooo, when are we gonna see some lesbo action??” And raise your eyebrows at a few girls sitting in the corner. Before you realize you don’t know any of them.

12:15am Standing on your coffee table, you’ve just led the whole party in the third consecutive rendition of “Mr. Jones”. People are laughing at you because you don’t really know the words. You laugh with them. Laughing is fun. You spot the landlord coming through the door and thank him for coming to your party. For some reason, there’s talk of heading to a bar soon. You hear yourself say: “Did you guys ever see my cock ring?”

1:05am You go the bathroom before leaving. In mid-stream, you decide to piss in the garbage bucket again. I’m a fucking party animal! You say, just as you realize this is your bathroom.

1:15am You hear yourself say, “Now, Cabby, you must puss a lotta getty on nights like this? Am I right?? AM I? Haaaaaaaaaaaa”

1:45am Although the intervening events are cloudy, one distinct image is burned into your mind – a stew of red vodka and digested party mix splashing violently into the urinal. Luckily, none of it seems to have gotten onto you. Except your pants and shoes. Apart from the smell, you can barely notice it. You wipe your mouth with a paper towel and you feel like a freshly-minted million dollar bill.

1:55am You elbow your way up to the bar, casually brushing past an obstacle course of asses and boobies on the way. You order ten shots of tequila on the last call for alcohol. Even though there are only three of you left. *hic*

2:20 am You’re in a cab going to the after-hours bars. You hear yourself describing in great drunken detail how hot Greg’s girlfriend is, and the exact places and manner of introduction by which you would like to get to know her better. You realize Greg is also in the cab and immediately switch the conversation to sports. Cool as an orange Popsicle.

2:45am Standing in line again. You fish around in your pocket for cash, but it isn’t there. I couldn’t have spent $80 already…

3:20 am After a fifteen minute wait at the bar, you make it just in time for another last call for alcohol. Even as you tap your debit card on the bar, you have no memory of the ungodly quantities of alcohol you have just ordered.

3:35am Is that Indian chick lookin’ me?

5:10am The cabby wakes you up to tell you you’re home. You have to ask him if you’ve already paid. And even though he says yes, you still think he’s trying to cheat you. As you fumble at the door, you discover that some bastard has put your keys in your front right pocket. Where you always keep them. *hic*

2003-01-06T15:50:00.000-08:00

The Magnificent Bastard is coming soon...