A Few Words About Nothing

Ever feel like you have nothing to say? That maybe you’ve just plumb ran outta anything of interest to talk about? It’s kinda weird. People try and talk to you, but you just don’t feel like saying anything, or you just have nothing really significant to contribute to the conversation. I’d rather say nothing at all than just say nothing for the sake of being verbal, wouldn’t you? Yes, today is one of those days. Today, I have nothing to say, but then…I guess now that I’ve said that, it’s too late to say that I’ve said nothing.

The Real SuperFly

Have you ever been on an airplane and suddenly a little tiny fly goes by your head?

Don’t you, just for a second, wonder how the hell that fly got on the airplane?

I often wonder if the fly has any idea just how fast it’s actually moving. 600 miles an hour. That’s one fast fucking fly.

“Sure, it may seem like forever to fly from coach to first class, but you just went through 3 states, Vincent Price”.

And Just How Do Ya Think The Frog Feels?

Some schmuck on the school board here is proposing new rules to make it more lenient for high school students to skip out of biology during dissection classes without reprimand.

Now, I got a bit of a problem with this.

One, as far as I recall, biology was only one of several sciences I could choose from when I was in high school. No one forced me to take it. I just thought it’d be more fun to cut open some roadkill than blow my shit up mixing foreign chemicals. But then again, I’m a different breed of electron.

Second, under current guidelines, students who object for moral or religious reasons can already opt out and instead perform dissection exercises on virtual computer programs, so really, what the fuck is this guy whining about?

Lastly, and most importantly, can we just please stop over-protecting these precious, precocious little Faberge children already? How soft do we need to turn these little mallrat-dwelling, midriff-baring, Britney-wannabe attitude monkeys?

Hell, this is 2005. What’s the big deal about a little animal dissection? Thanks to the internet, by high school, most of these kids have witnessed public beheadings, suicides, snuff videos and scads of fellow humankind going down on various forms of farmyard animals. And you’re telling me their offended by the digestive tract of a dead frog? Bullshit Charlie, sounds like an excuse for a smoke break to me.

According to arguments, many of these so-called offended students find dissection “downright unethical”.

Normally, I might find this a worthy defense only it's speaking for the same generation that created the concept of the 'rainbow party' where girls in attendance apply different colored lipstick then line up and blow the boys. Presumably, whatever boy has the most complete "rainbow" on his cock at the end of the night wins the contest, not to mention a serious case of Herpes. Now, what was that about these teens finding dissection "downright unethical"?

Look, I understand some kids may object to dissection. I get that it disgusts them. Hey, how do you think I felt about compound fractions? Fucking turned my stomach. But why not try what I did: bear it, do it, and move the fuck on. Hey, school ain't meant to be all hard-on inducing slow dances with the prom queen and blow jobs in the parking lot - if it did, no one would EVER graduate. What the fuck would be the point?

Listen up kids, ya know that same nauseus feeling you get when you slice open a pig fetus' abdomen and nearly puke? That's called training. Because believe me, after you graduate, get a job and make that fatal administrative error on your first day at the office accidentally wiping out the company payroll -- well, let's just say you'll wish you were back in school, balls deep in the fetus of a pig.

Up For Some Wings?

Eating chicken wings is the closest dining experience we have to our primordial ancestors. You know, it’s raw. Savage. It’s one of the few foods you can acceptably consume with your hands, pulling and tearing flesh from intricate-structures of airy bone like a wild baboon feasting on the recently gnawed-off leg of a small mammal.

Unlike other “finger” foods however, wings require more attention. You need to stare at your food, concentrate even and work at it. It’s eating with reward – you feel good about yourself because there’s a work ethic involved.

If you’re doing an adequate job, your face and hands will be covered thoroughly in hot sauce, signifying the spilled blood of your kill. At the end of the meal, you sit back, relax and you lick the sauce (blood) from your fingers and chops as would a lion after over-gorging on the still-warm innards of a downed gazelle.

So see, going for wings is a lot more than just a snack and an excuse to stare down the top of some dumb Hooter’s girl.

Well…going for wings with me anyhow.

Days of the Tainted Tator Tot

So, in San Jose some lady found a fingertip in her bowl of chili at a Wendy’s restaurant.

Now, don't tell me you’re surprised at this. Disgusted, yes, but surprised?

C’mon, we have grown up in the age of desecrated dining experiences…the era of fast food tomfoolery…yes my friends, these are the days of the tainted tater tot. Forget about mad cow disease - at your local burger bistro these days, you’re more likely to nosh on a short and curly…and I’m not talking about the fries.

I don’t eat fast food myself anymore. Well, there is one hamburger chain here in Canada I’ll go to occasionally – Harvey’s – but it’s only because they prepare your burger right in front of you so you know the pimply punk’s not hiding a giant oyster loogie underneath a slice of cheese.

Still, I’m not naive. I’m still pretty sure the disgruntled greaseball on the night shift likely spends his downtime urinating in the deep fryer, so you know, there’s that.

When I was a kid, I worked at a Burger King and there were always rumors of terrible things rotten employees would do to the food. A notorious tale that is forever lodged in my memory is that one little shithead used to take hamburger buns and wipe them around the edge of the toilet seat in the staff washroom. I don’t know if this is true or not, but to this day, when I order a hamburger, I hold the mustard and check the bun for yellow stains.

Well, maybe I shouldn’t be so worried. After all, don’t they say ‘what you don’t know, won’t kill you’? Sure, tell that to the poor kid who unknowingly orders the special ‘fecal-matter’ sauce on his Filet o’ Fish and contracts Hepatitis and see if he concurs with that argument.

But I suppose we do need to go through life with some semblance of blind faith, otherwise we’ll become completely paranoid searching for fingertips in the chili, and believe me, once you start looking, you’ll probably find a lot worse items than someone’s dialing finger.

Besides, haven’t researchers found that in our lifetime we unknowingly ingest something like 7 spiders as we sleep? If that’s true, I’m sure our stomachs can handle one little pube in the milkshake.

My Negative Upbringing

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Once when I was a kid, somebody called me a 'pessimist'.

Although I had never heard the word before, I just knew it couldn't be a good thing.

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The Saddest Thing In The World

I saw the saddest thing in the world this morning.

As I was walking on the sidewalk, I came across a pair of pigeons on the edge of the road. One was lying on it’s side, alive but clearly in the grips of death. The healthy pigeon circled it curiously, cooing a solemn sound and looking quizzically at the poor downed bird. Suddenly, the pigeon jumped on top of the dying bird, as if in a desperate, hopeful attempt to awaken it’s beautiful life-mate. A flurry of feathers struggled momentarily, then faltered. Although the healthy pigeon’s efforts were in vain, still it stood by, guarding it’s companion and cooing it’s sorrowful tune.

...then a garbage truck roared by running over both the little fuckers.
Hoo-boy! How fucking cool is that?!

My Own Little Evel Knievel Deathtrap

The latest soft, overly protective piece of parental advice:

Health officials are warning parents to properly restrain their children using seatbelts after research shows children in shopping carts are suffering injuries.

Well, no kidding.

Isn’t that the appeal of the shopping cart for a kid? It’s called being a daredevil. “My own little Evel Knievel deathtrap”. Where’s the fun in just sitting around watching Mom’s fat ass while she struggles for 20 minutes to perform a mathematical miracle calorie counting the number of carbs in a box of Chewy Chips Ahoy versus regular Chips Ahoy?

Fuck that! Let the kid surf.

“Let’s quit fuckin’ around Ma, and get this rocket ship moving through the frozen food aisle – if we don’t hit warp five by the Eggos, we’ll never make it to hyperdrive, goddammit!!”

I didn’t even know seat belts were an option for shopping carts. They certainly weren’t when I was young. Talk about lame. What’s next – mandatory helmet laws for kids in carts?

Oh shit. It probably is.

Anyone else getting tired of these soft, sheltering warnings and laws for kids? My generation grew up without seatbelts in carts and mandatory helmet laws…hell, my parents didn’t even have a “Baby On Board” bumper sticker on their car (sound of awestruck gasp!). Still, I think I turned out okay.

Why can’t we just let kids grow up and play and experience the joy and drama of living?

Hey, here’s a secret: Life isn’t always a safe and sugary joyride down the snack food aisle in a shopping cart. Sometimes it’s a terrorizing, fiery cart ride across the middle of a busy freeway full of drunk drivers with no regard for human worth and faulty power steering. How about we teach ‘em that lesson?

“Now strap on your helmet, Billy – it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

See, the way I look at it, these overly cautious laws aren’t necessarily solving the problem – they’re covering it with a proverbial band-aid. Now Mommy doesn’t have to teach little Maximillian the benefits of wearing a helmet, he just HAS TO WEAR IT. The law says so.

So, I wonder…are kids growing up with a basis of reality for these laws? Do they understand the grounds for their enforcement? I doubt it. They’re kids. They don’t even understand why they can’t eat the paste.

But when I was young, there was a kid in the neighborhood we called Dumpty. He talked funny, drooled a lot and often stared at an elderberry bush for hours on end. We didn’t need a law to tell us a helmet would save us if we fell off our bike.

We just knew we didn’t wanna end up like Dumpty.

18th Century Hangover Redux

(a play in two acts)

In light of it being post-St. Patty's (and i'm also just lazy), here is a revamped version of an earlier post for those who don't attend the love seminars on saucymonklight.

* * *

18th Century Hangover Redux

Act One,
Scene One:

Why doth mine head feel like a scraped out pumpkin?
The seeds to be roasted upon an open fire.
Thine eyes are like triangles, but alas no candle to light upon the inside of thee empty vessel.
Could it be the libations of the night previous?

Alas, me thinks it could sadly be.

O, bright lights.
Casting pain upon the eyes.
And the pounding of the keyboard is deafening upon the ears.

I shall go hither upon my steed to pay a few shillings to the apothecary for the courtesy of an Advil.

But i fear my efforts will be in vain.

Act Two,
Scene One:

Woe is me.

I hath but not enough to purchase my relief.
Therefore, I shall suffer in silence and seek salvation in thine black coffee cup instead.

The end.

Fear Of Flying

I fly quite a lot. Sometimes people sometimes ask me if I’m afraid of flying.

I always telling them I don’t have a fear of flying.

I have a fear of landing…

...really fucking hard, as in as a flaming mass into the middle of a desolate cornfield.

To me, that seems more reasonable.

The Latest Craze In Russia

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From what I’ve read, AIDS is on the rise again in Russia.

Then again, so is ABBA but nobody’s writing about that now are they?


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Art Versus Porno

There’s a fine line between art and pornography.

If a woman stands on her head naked in a museum with her legs spread open in a suggestive manner and holds the position – it’s called performance art. She's making a statement.

Give her a pole and some ping pong balls to juggle...

...suddenly it’s disgusting.

*

Pretzels From Heaven

First, the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese sandwich sold for $28,000...

...now some 12-year-old girl has sold a pretzel that bears the image of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus on Ebay for over 10-grand.

Doesn’t anyone just EAT their fucking food anymore?

Y'know, one time my mom pulled a three-pronged carrot out of the garden that looked like the lower torso of a man with a really large dick. Know what we did? We giggled, took a photo and then chucked it in the soup stock. 2 hours later, we had an excellent steaming hot bowl of carrot cock soup and then forgot all about it.

The little girl was quoted as saying, “At first I thought it was an ‘S’…I just thought it was a weird-shaped pretzel”. Ya? Well guess what sweet tits, that’s what it was.

Now I’m guessing the underlying value of this thing isn’t just the fact that this pretzel has taken on any old juxtapositional image. I mean, if that were true my mom’s carrot-with-a-dick woulda landed her a mint. No, I assume it’s because that pretzel’s image just happens NOT to be an ‘S’, but the Virgin Mary holding an 'S'-like Jesus.

Have you seen it? I don’t see no Mary and Jesus. However, I do see an “S”. I also see a treble clef. And if I stare at it long enough, I can also kinda see Pavarotti lighting one of his farts on fire.

So, are these folks opportunistic? Are they fanatical? Are they insane? Well, probably a bit of all three, but I would hardly consider them honest people of faith. Would any truly educated religious person be so impressionable as to believe God would send them messages in a bag of Cheetos?

I mean that’s like saying God has been talking to you through a plant that’s in flames.

Okay, bad example.

Hey, maybe there is something to this pretzel thing after all. Good thing it’s now in the custody of the true house of the Holy.

The Golden Palace Casino.

The Dead Celebrity Fan Club

While in LA this past weekend, I came across an interesting ad in a local paper advertising nightly stays at the former apartment of late Doors singer Jim Morrison.

Now, while I’m not sure why anyone would pay to sleep in some dumpy, roach-infested ‘70’s shithole furnished with grimy bongs, dirty shag carpeting and beds infested with flesh-burrowing parasites passed on by these so-called Doors Fans/Uncleanly Hippie Vermin, I am sure there is probably no shortage of morons ready to shell out big bucks to break on through to the burn-out side.

When it comes to dead celebrities, Jim Morrison has got to carry a heavy load.

Ever been to his gravesite in Paris? It was so popular with adulated fans desperately craving to pay tribute to their favorite singer (y'know, by loitering for endless weeks, smoking copious amounts of highly-potent hydroponic skunkweed and scrawling “Long Live the Lizard King!” on any nearby tombstones), the cemetery had to fence off Morrison’s resting place. I presume these fans now smoke their weed in the same place local Parisiens relieve their bladders (which happens to be any fucking place they feel like).

Note: Can you believe 19th century composer Frederic Chopin is also buried at Pere Lachaise cemetery, and not a single knife-etched scrawling of “Long Live Rondo in E flat Major, Opus 16!” on his tombstone. Don’t worry though. I fixed that.

So, what is it with these dead celebs that keeps us hangin’ on?

Every year, the man with the hard hair on the nightly news tells us how old Elvis would have been on January 8th. Are we ever going to stop keeping track of this shit? Is there ever gonna be some point when we'll hear the news anchor say “today Elvis Presley would have been seventy-sev…ya know what? Who we kidding? By now, he would’ve been dead, alright! Can we finally let it go? Would that be OK?".

Marilyn Monroe is another dead celeb people just can’t say goodbye to. Why not? Hollywood's greatest actress? A celebrated legend? Come on...if Marilyn had lived any longer, she would’ve ended up becoming Anna Nicole Smith with the tact and fortitude of Robert Downey Jr at a complimentary ‘all-you-can-snoot’ cocaine smorgasbord.

What really frightens me is…who’s next? It’s scary to think that if Paris Hilton suddenly noshed on a bad batch of stuffed portabello mushroom caps and succumbed to food poisoning (because she likely has the immune system of a Lincoln Log), people may actually, years from now, lament about just what could’ve been...what talents had yet to be discovered...and what kinky sex tapes she might’ve recorded with her boyfriend in a drunken stupor.

So, lets leave the dead alone. Next time you’re in LA, don’t waste your hard-earned cash on an apartment even Jim Morrison wouldn’t have remembered himself if he were alive today. Spend it where its needed. Like the famous, high-priced Regency Beverly Wilshire. I hear that hotel couldn’t even afford to supply Zsa Zsa Gabor with her very own personal toilet paper maitre d’ last year. Let’s quit being hung up on the dead celebs and spread the wealth where it counts.

We must get Zsa Zsa her asswiper. And quick.

Ja Rule: Misinterpretated Again.

So I'm flying back from Los Angeles when all of a sudden Ja Rule sits down in the seat in front of me.

Although I restrained myself, I was dying to ask him what he would be doing in Toronto. In fact, I wanted to interrupt and ask him what music he was listening to. I almost asked him if he had ever seen the in-flight movie, Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason. And just about offered him my mini bag of pretzels, since I wasn't going to eat them. Early the next day, I woke to this newspaper headline:

Ja Rule pleads guilty in T.O. assault

Probably best I didn't bother him.

This morning he appeared on local television where he answered a question about hip-hop getting a bad rap (yes, I said it) due to the nature of it's violent lyrical content.

He answered, "Ya, I think rap is misinterpretated".

I agree. It is completely misinterpretated.

You've Been Chimped

reporting from L.A.

* * *

Yesterday I woke up to a big local newstory:

Primate Party Gone Horribly Wrong.

If you haven't yet heard, allow me to give you the rundown.

A couple was visiting Moe, their incarcerated pet chimpanzee in monkey jail when 2 other "inmates" escaped and attacked the couple, savagely tearing the man's face off, chewing up his foot and, as initial reports stated, plucking off the dude's testicles.

The dude's testicles. Man, them is some ornery monkeys.

Well, I guess I would be too if I were sentenced to monkey jail. See, ya learn something everyday, dontcha?. Who even knew there was a monkey jail?

"Yo simian, whatchoo in for?"
"Theft of bananas, public indecency for beatin' off at the zoo and inciting a riot tossing dookie around the cage - but I swear I'm innocent."

Now, I always assumed the Zoo was considered jail for monkeys, so just imagine how bad actual monkey jail must be. I mean, how do the monkeys even do their time - making licence plates for little tricycles other monkeys are forced to ride at the circus? No wonder they want to rip our faces off. We give 'em diapers and we expect the world.

The couple shoulda known these chimps could be dangerous. Hell, their own chimp had been locked up since '99 for biting off a ladies finger. Since '99. That's hard time in monkey jail.

But the dude's testicles. Wow.

I mean ripping off the face was pretty bad, but you could live without a face. You could still get a couple of chicks without a face. You do a search on Lavalife and I guarantee you'll find some chick dying to hook up with a "faceless, one-footed chimp victim". Hey, if you're willing to be peed on, ya may as well fuck a dude with no face too. Let's not have a double-standard here.

But yer testicles, man. You can't do shit without your testicles. Ain't no point in having a face without your testicles.

And then to chew off the man's foot. Now he's just a faceless, ball-less gimp who can't even run away. That's just mean.

Shit, the only thing worse would have been if these monkeys did all that and then stuck the poor bastard in the ass.

"There sucker - now you've been chimped".

Please Come Again...(Asshole)

At what point did we give up on real customer service for the illusion of customer service?

Everywhere I go now someone is quick to greet me before I get my foot in the door of their store. Wal-Mart. 7 -11. Blockbuster Video.

“Hello!”, “Hello!”
"Hello!", "Hello."
"Hello!", “Hell-fuckin’-o, already!!!”

Look, QuickDraw McGreeter, I don’t mind that your so-called friendly demeanor is already as false as Pamela Anderson’s 5-pin bowling boobs, but please don’t compound it by pretending to be that eager to see me enter your store, ok?

Wal-Mart even has ‘greeters’ hired to say “hello” to you as you enter, as if a witness wasn’t the last thing you wanted going into that dump.

But have you noticed these greeters at Wal-Mart are always really old or people in wheelchairs? How patronizing it must be to finally knock down the stigmatized walls of discrimination and get hired at Wal-Mart only to be told you gotta sit your ass at the door and greet 300-lb trailer park queens wearing undersized sweatpants with “juicy” written across the ass for 8 hours a day.

“Well, you’ve got the job Mr. Hawking – quite the resume. Now get out there and show us what that freaky voicebox is made of!”

And one more thing. Don’t wish me well if I’m leaving and didn’t purchase anything from your store.

“Come again!”
“Take care!”
“Thanks for coming!”.

Thanks for coming?!? I didn’t even buy anything. Wanna know how I reply when I hear this wimpy, final plea for my business as I exit the store?

“You fucking pussy!”

Well…I figure anyone this desperate only deserves to hear the truth. And I think it would be refreshing to hear a little honesty from a store clerk if I didn’t purchase his wares.

“Thanks for wasting my time!”
“Next time just keep walkin’, fucknut!”
“I hope you don’t treat your girlfriend this way, you cocktease!”

Ya know, that kind of thing. Why, if I heard that, I reckon he’d make a sale off me next time.

How To Use Your New Breast

In Miami, a former topless dancer who was famously cleared of battering a Florida nightclub patron with her breasts has removed her oversized silicone implants and put one of them up for auction on eBay.

While I’m not likely to jump on to the on-line auction site myself and drop a few bucks for an unimplanted implant, I am always here to help the pathetic few who might (I’m kinda like a post-modern Mother Theresa, only I’m a bit of a heretic and I like Fudgee-O’s. Lotta people don't know that Mama-T detested Fudgee-O’s - more of a Newton fan, really).

Anyhow, here’s a few ways you might consider using your newly purchased breast implant…

- an elbow pillow – wait…how big is this thing?
- a pot-holder
- practice
- a boxing glove
- a bean-bag chair for a small dog
- a replacement tetherball
- a replacement volleyball
- a coaster for your bowling ball
- a neck rest for long car rides
- a bike helmet…
- …or if you’re French, a clear beret
- a paper weight
- a candy dish
- No ass? Put it in your pants. Instant big, bubbly firm ass.