A Long Weekend is a Coming

I am back. I think I am having some technical difficulties here today, so do not be surprised if this thing does not post properly. Then again, if it does not, you will not be able to read this. In which case, you would not know about the difficulties this whole bit is useless and redundant. Deal with it!

I was just reading that Osama bin Laden wants the body of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi returned to "him" by the Americans in Iraq. I just wanted to let Mr. bin Laden know that the body is ready and waiting for him to pick it up, but he will be required to show ID and he would need the claim ticket. No tickee, no washee as my grandmother would say to me.

I was at the baseball game last night with the family (Go Blue Jays). Interesting mix of people, I have to say. There was this one person, I am still having trouble figuring out if it were an unattractive woman or man. He/she, I think she was female, had a blue fanny pack on. There is an accessory straight out of the early 90s, that should never be duplicated. I know that we all have a lot of shit to carry. I know that summer is difficult because you "lose" those coat pockets when you ditch the coat for the summer. Still, the fanny pack is not the way to go for anybody. Hell, just minimize it all and deal with the keys stabbing into your thigh. Suck it up, smile and bleed quietly, with some dignity. There is no dignity with the fanny pack.

She was with a child of unknown gender. It was either a blond haired boy with a brush cut dressed in pink, or a blond haired girl with a brush cut dressed in pink. The wife thought it was a she and named her "Brush Cut Betty". I just thought that this could be one gender screwed child. I mean a boy dressed in pink like that (do you tell him that it is obvious his parents wanted a girl) then again a little girl in pink with a dyke hair cut. This kid is in for some emotional turmoil coming to grips with her sexuality. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that and it has nothing to do with me.

Well, have a great long weekend and enjoy Canada Day. Go Canada! Woo hoo! Ciao!

Another public service announcement

I am back. Just screwing with fonts. I have a story from Reuters for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy it.

Operation removes lightbulb from anus
Thu Jun 29, 7:34 AM ET
Fateh Mohammad, a prison inmate in Pakistan, says he woke up last weekend with a glass lightbulb in his anus.
Wednesday night, doctors brought Mohammad's misery to an end after a one-and-a-half hour operation to remove the object.
"Thanks Allah, now I feel comfort. Today, I had my breakfast. I was just drinking water, nothing else," Mohammad, a grey-beared man in his mid-40s, told Reuters from a hospital bed in the southern central city of Multan.
"We had to take it out intact," said Dr. Farrukh Aftab at Nishtar Hospital. "Had it been broken inside, it would be a very very complicated situation."
Mohammad, who is serving a four-year sentence for making liquor, prohibited for Muslims, said he was shocked when he was first told the cause of his discomfort. He swears he didn't know the bulb was there.
"When I woke up I felt a pain in my lower abdomen, but later in hospital, they told me this," Mohammad said.
"I don't know who did this to me. Police or other prisoners."
The doctor treating Mohammad said he'd never encountered anything like it before, and doubted the felon's story that someone had drugged him and inserted the bulb while he was comatose.

Thanks Allah indeed. Why would Allah stuff a lightbulb up this poor dude's poop chute? I did not not know that under Islamic law making liquor was punishable by having a lightbulb stuffed up your ass. I do not recall that one being in the Koran, see how the Koran was written about 1000 years before the lightbulb was invented.

I do know that one of uses of the lightbulb intended by Edison was as a sex toy/aid. He was a kinky fucker that Edison. He would stuff lightbulbs up his ass as well, though he tried to keep it a secret.

This story is similar to an earlier posting I had regarding a website of masturbation horror stories. One of them was the drunk dude who stuffed a lightbulb into his ass (as I imagined it, it was sort of a twist on Uncle Fester from the Addams family and how he could put a lightbulb in his mouth and it would light up, only this time it was put in a dude's anus and it, too, would light up) while he was masturbating in the bathroom. He fell, on his ass, ramming the lightbulb, breaking it as well I would imagine, right up his pooper. Million to one shot, doc. Million to one shot.

Now, here we have a jailed guy, in Pakistan, no less, claiming that he was drugged and person(s) unknown, stuffed a lightbulb up his ass. Whose semen was it keeping in? What kind of baby is going to be born? Who will be this bastard product of anal sex?

People let this serve as a lesson for you all. There is nothing wrong with butt play. It is okay, do not be embarrassed. However, under no circumstance should you be stuffing lightbulbs, flashlights or another small appliance in your, or anybody else's, ass. Of course, that is not a hard and fast rule, more of a guideline because sometimes certain people just deserve to have something shoved up their butts. That is not me talking but history. Ciao!

Older but certainly not wiser

I am back. Another school year is ending for my lad. It is kind of sad. Not for him, but for me. It just seems to mean I am getting older. I find that so hard to believe. I am locked into a 20 year old mentality. I see people, my peers, around me getting older but I stay the same age. It just is not true. I know this, but almost refuse to believe it.

I fully understand how Wooderson felt when he said "I love high school girls. I keep getting older but they stay the same age" (Dazed and Confused for those of you who did not get the reference). It scares me when something so simple can be so profound. But it is true for me, only a bit different.

I know I am getting older. I know this because I am having trouble reading small print, especially in low light. I am not ready for glasses, though. I noticed my 60 year old uncle, who does not wear glasses, has been using those reader glasses (magnifying glasses that look like granny glasses). He could put them on beads and look like an old lady playing canasta.

I really want to be Peter Pan. He had it right, though I want to be a young adult. That is a misnomer as I want the adult treatment and benefits without the responsibilities. That is just wrong and I accept that, but a madman can dream, or just fantasize.

Is that a mid-life crisis that I smell? No, it is just dog crap. Oh well, I will persevere and grow up (kicking and screaming all the way). It may not be dignified but there is no need for dignity now. It is a luxury that I can ill afford right now.

Well enough about me, how you all doing? Well have a good one. Ciao!

Weekend musings and enlightened thinking

I am back. My son had a friend sleep over on Saturday. We had dinner and I ended up taking them for ice cream at Baskin Robbins. No problem. We park and have to walk to BR. We get to the corner, on which there is a coffee shop (Timothy's for those playing at home). Sitting outside with their demi-tasse cups of coffee, espresso to be exact, are a bunch of dudes for whom English is not a first language. I say that because they are not speaking English and look to Slavic, but what do I know.

All I know is that in their World Cup conversation, coffee drinking and cigarette smoking they stunk to high hell. It may have not been as bad as Stinky Guy, but it was a veritable potpourri of reek.

That got me thinking that proper immigration policy for this, or any, country should include hygiene. As well, upon entry immigrants should be issued a bar of soap, deodorant and instructions on how to use them. If it is found out that they still smell, or stop using the soap, etc., deportation should be immediate and irrevocable.

I think it is enlightened thinking. I think a clean and sweet smelling population is a happy population. That would lead to greater prosperity for all. Hell, retail stores have been using scent to entice and increase sales. Let us take a page from the marketers and make this country smell good. The world would be a better place if everybody just fucking bathed more often (especially those dudes and Stinky Guy, though as I have said before he may need proper instructions on how to get the best use out of soap). Is that too much to ask?

If you want to smell like a goat, stuffed up a camel's ass in the desert on a sunny day in mid-July at three in the afternoon, that is your business. In fact, keep it that way and funkify your own abode. Do not come outside to share your natural musk, er man/woman stink, with the rest of the world. Speaking on behalf of the rest of the world, we do not care to smell you. With that I say, smell you all later. Ciao!

Simon Cowell presents his version of the Gong Show, where is poor Chuck Berris

I am back. I forgot to get to shit yesterday so I am making up for it today. It is more of a bullshit post with little of interest but here I go anyway. I was watching, why I do not know, that NBC show by Simon Cowell of American Idol fame "America's Biggest Talent" or something like that. It is like Idol except it emcompasses all manner of "talent" and has three judges, David Hasselhoff, who appeared to be drunk at times, Brandy playing the role of Paula Abdul, and some other British dude. They all have a buzzer to buzz the people off.

All I can say is this. I think I liked it better when they called it "The Gong Show". Other than putting it together, Simon Cowell has just ripped off Chuck Berris and his Gong Show. I am thinking that this makes Brandy, Jaye P Morgan. Juicy Jaye P Morgan, why was she "famous" (another Charo type question there) anyway, did flash her tits in "The Gong Show Movie" which I am ashamed to say that I saw in the theatre. The mitigating factor there was that I was 14 or 15, it was R rated, and I got in. When you are underage, you will pay to see the fruit of the forbidden tree, no matter how much it stinks and disappointing it is. It is the thrill of breaking the rules. The joke was obviously on me and my companion, an old friend with whom I had a sort of a falling out. That is a story for another day.

There was some talent there but I wonder about it. A few of these people would make good street performers or buskers. Others look like they would be best suited to Vegas acts, which is not a bad thing. The show sucks, but it is summer and there is nothing on the tube now that hockey and basketball are done. Do not say World Cup because that does not count for me, so it is meaningless to me at least.

Well, just thought I would mention that and now I must run. Ciao!

Medication, Voices and Fire Water

I am back. This will be brief. I want to wish all of you out there a happy summer. How gay is that? It is the summer solstice and that means all is good for me, new beginnings and all. I thought that I would share that bit of nonsense with you all. Also, the medication has kicked in, so the voices have gotten much quieter. Of course, now that I think of it, that could be explained just as easily by hearing loss. Shit, the voices are still there but I am going deaf. That is a bitch. I guess I will just have to go back to fire water. Well, that says it all, cheers! Ciao!

A father's pride

I am back. I will be brief and very self-indulgent today. This is the story of a proud father, me. You see, Thursday, was the final baseball game for my son's team and league. It was always funny that with me tossing the ball, he had little trouble hitting. Then through the season, the best he would do at the plate was to hit weak ground balls to the right side of the infield (he bats left). He had kids on his team who could really hit for power from the right side of the plate.

I could not figure out why his hitting was so different. I was wondering if there was some performance anxiety, but I never sensed he was tense or uptight when he was up to bat. In fact, his coaches were quite encouraging to all the kids. His fielding was okay. He could stand to be more alert in the field, but he is nine, and that is how nine year olds are, or at least how this one is. He does not have the arm strength, not many do, to throw from short or third to first on a grounder. He was playing short when he made the catch and ate the ball. It was the right move. I was pleased.

On to his last at bat and the source of my pride. He is up with the bases loaded and hits a legitimate grand slam. I would be the first to admit if it were a double with a couple of errors along the way, but this was legit. He tagged a beautiful line drive that climbed out of the infield. When trying to think of how he finally was able to connect and provide his team with some left side power, it was apparent what the problem had been all season long. My son, my pride and joy, was too damn stubborn to wear his glasses while he played. As he touched home plate, I congratulated him and told him it is an amazing thing that hitting a softball is pretty easy when you can SEE it. Here is hoping that he has learned that lesson, or does he blindly bump his way through life, like Mr McGoo. Only time will tell (thanks to Asia for that one). Ciao!

A father's pride

I am back. I will be brief and very self-indulgent today. This is the story of a proud father, me. You see, Thursday, was the final baseball game for my son's team and league. It was always funny that with me tossing the ball, he had little trouble hitting. Then through the season, the best he would do at the plate was to hit weak ground balls to the right side of the infield (he bats left). He had kids on his team who could really hit for power from the right side of the plate.

I could not figure out why his hitting was so different. I was wondering if there was some performance anxiety, but I never sensed he was tense or uptight when he was up to bat. In fact, his coaches were quite encouraging to all the kids. His fielding was okay. He could stand to be more alert in the field, but he is nine, and that is how nine year olds are, or at least how this one is. He does not have the arm strength, not many do, to throw from short or third to first on a grounder. He was playing short when he made the catch and ate the ball. It was the right move. I was pleased.

On to his last at bat and the source of my pride. He is up with the bases loaded and hits a legitimate grand slam. I would be the first to admit if it were a double with a couple of errors along the way, but this was legit. He tagged a beautiful line drive that climbed out of the infield. When trying to think of how he finally was able to connect and provide his team with some left side power, it was apparent what the problem had been all season long. My son, my pride and joy, was too damn stubborn to wear his glasses while he played. As he touched home plate, I congratulated him and told him it is an amazing thing that hitting a softball is pretty easy when you can SEE it. Here is hoping that he has learned that lesson, or does he blindly bump his way through life, like Mr McGoo. Only time will tell (thanks to Asia for that one). Ciao!

Father's Day

I am back. This is my post Father's Day sort of rant. The day lost meaning for me in 1991. At the time, I no longer had a father so there was not much to celebrate. Besides, there was really no uptick in the sale of fragrances for dad in the old store. It was just another Sunday to me. It did mean that I would spend part of the day with the wife's father, though. So it went through to 1996, a meaningless Sunday and time spent with my father in law, with or without my brother in law present.

By 1997, I had assumed the vaunted role of father. It was as easy as depositing my sperm in the wife and lo and behold, nine months later, and some physical growth to her (I lost a pound for each pound that she gained, so we were in synch in some Bizzaro Universe). That made me a father. It was good, still is, too. But that gave Father's Day a new meaning to me. I could celebrate it once again and revel in it. I knew my day to receive crappy, but thoughtful, gifts was upon me.

Nine years later, I am still waiting for the bottle of Old Spice After Shave. The saddest thing is given the environment in which I grew up, I am a snob when it comes to fragrances and art. I secretly envied those homes I visited with furniture and electronic diversions but I could never understand the drab, soul-sucking artwork that was displayed, when there was any to be displayed. In one friends living room, where apparently people did not actually live but spent time with "company" as there was furniture, in plastic to retain the peak freshness I can only surmise, and there was no television to be found, they had a tree painted on the white wall. It was a great wall that could have displayed a real show stopping piece of art, but they had a painted tree that matched the earth tones of the carpet and furniture. Blah!!

I grew up in a home without much furniture. All our walls were painted white, but all were covered in modern art. When my parents ran out of wall space, the ceiling was used. In fact, the artist came and saw his piece on the ceiling and instead of getting pissed (which cracks me because once you sold that piece, you lose your right to how it is displayed) he looked up and thought it worked up there, too. Lost a lot of ping pong balls to the one, though as they would make there way in the space between the hooks and the frame.

Along with art in the house, the store had art all over the walls and high end fragrances, non of that dime store shit. I was always cracked up by Old Spice and Aqua Velva commercials. I mean, I NEVER saw anybody buy that stuff, though we often carried a bottle or two, in case. I have long thought that Aqua Velva was for drinking because who the hell wanted to smell like that. Then again, it would be an improvement for Stinky Guy, though it would probably be like putting an Airwick in a sewer, in July.

That is the reason why I do not think I ever got my father a bottle of Old Spice for Father's Day, though the Old Spice is not a bad scent. I also do not expect it from my son, either. He did get me a CD, but the thought of spending money for music hurts (it is a sign of the times). It was a nice day spent at our friends pool and then I got to barbecue for my in laws. That meant my father in law's "crazies" were going to be on full display.

They were told to arrive after five. I kept telling the wife that they would be here around three thirty or four. At four forty five, they arrived. My mother in law told me that would have been here at two thirty if my father in law had his way. He was antsy to leave by seven thirty reasoning he had been here since five. I am guessing he has a shelf life of about two hours now. He is well on his way to "shut in" status. This whole thing may give my mother in law a case of the "crazies" which will in turn cause my wife to get the "crazies". Who thought that the crazies would be contagious.

All I know is that if my wife catches those crazies, she is outta here. I can deal with reasoned insanity, the only Crazy allowed in this house, is mine because it is reasoned and well thought out. That is a Father's Day gift given to me by myself! Ciao!

Of tricorns, wigs and mullets

I am back. I saw the movie, really the end of it, "Tom Jones" last week. I believe the film won the Best Picture Oscar back in 1963 (ancient times as far as I am concerned). It featured a young Albert Finney (not with a not yet born me). It was pretty funny as it took place in London, England in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, near as I could tell.

In looking at the costumes and hairstyles of the men, I found myself laughing. You just do not see enough dudes wearing tricorn hats. You don't unless you leave in Pirate Cove, and even then I figure the pirates have given up the tricorns for dewrags, bandanas and baseball caps. That is a fashion statement I would like to see brought back. Let us all pledge to do what we can to start a fashion trend, men wearing tricorns. We could start by getting some of Hollywood's finest wearing the things. It would be cool.

Not the tricorns, per se, but starting a mass trend. Creating the proverbial snowball before we let it roll down the mountain, picking up snow and momentum, to become an avalanche, or a big, painful snow boulder, crushing all in its path. Now that would be cool!

I also noticed that the dudes of that period had long hair and wore wigs with a bow in them. It is a wonder that our species was propogated during that period when the men were flitting about looking like ponce queers. Again, not that there is anything wrong with that, but no childrens get birthed if the men are galavanting with other men, that is not me taking that is nature and science. I am not advocating the use of wigs and bows on men. It would not work with all the shaven head, aerodynamic dudes, and they have nowhere to place the ribbon and bow.

There were an awful lot of mullets, or mullet potential, back then too. I am now thankful that I did not live back then. I could not have handled the mullets, wigs and bows, I could have gotten into the tricorns, though. A society that looks like the Quaker Oats Quaker, that is what it is all about. That dude knew where it was at.

Ciao! Not much of an ending segue but it is all I got today.

It is so true that it is scary!

I am back. I am even more amazed that I forgot to comment on this one sooner. I mean EVERY time I think that I seen the strangest in humanity, another contestant enters the race. Today it is anal bleaching. Yes, you read correctly, anal bleaching. I will give you the link but I did see the story on Cruel.com about two weeks ago.

Anal bleaching? Bleaching your asshole is what it really is. Going from the old brown chocolate starfish, as it were, to an inviting pink. I am not sure for whom you are doing the bleaching. I know I do not spend anytime at the mirror with my ass cheeks spread looking at my butthole. That is just me. What you do in the privacy of your own home, or the Gap change room or public toilets, is your own business. It is just that it seems so frivolous. What do you do when you have nothing to do, or nothing concrete to worry about? You worry that your asshole is brown and not as pretty as a porn star's pink "winker"! That is too funny by half.

There you are, go in for the Brazilian bikini wax (rip it all off, including those nasty hairs surrounding the chocolate starfish) and while you are down there, could bleach my hole to a nice pink?

It is porn star chic taken to the extreme. What is next just taking the "money shot" while walking down the street? Say, that gives me an idea for some "gonzo" porn, I will have to call Adam aka Seymour Butts with that idea. (see Family Business). It all makes me think of the late Frank Zappa, off his Shiek Yerbouti album, the song "Broken Hearts are For Assholes". It did contain some great lines including "it's winking at you" and "You're an asshole". Those are words to live by, I know I do. Ciao! The link is below to read the article enjoy and happy pink arseholes to you all!

http://crappersquarterly.com/features/analbleaching.htm

Am I a bad Father?

I am back. I was away for a bit because of technical difficulties. That and abject laziness. I tried on Thursday for a while to get on but it was a "no go". I do not blame anybody, but those damn tech gremlins. In any event, I have to ask the question, "am I a bad father?" and I will recound the story. I do not want to seem needy, I was going to write "too needy" but that would imply and an element of neediness and I am not sure if I am needy so to imply it in the question would be skewing the question.

Before I begin, I wanted to give a birthday shout out to Willie as it was his b-day on Thursday, so let's all give him a round of applause as he is truly deserving.

Here is why I ask the question. On Wednesday evening the lad and I are outside, tossing a ball on the lawn after dinner, with the wife sitting and watching. It is getting past 7:30 and the lad, being a bit sweaty, is in need of a shower. To be clear, I love my boy, but he, like his father, is a "time sucker". He finds a way to just "suck" time doing nothing but living in his own head. This means that he can take a twenty minute shower, even when he does not want to take a shower. I am beginning to think that I should just ram his head in the toilet and flush (ye olde swirly) to get it all done quicker but that would be cruel.

We are playing catch with our baseball gloves and a tennis ball. The goal is for him to make eight consecutive catches. As it is getting time for his shower, we decide the next catch will be the last. I throw him one and he has it in his glove, turns his glove upside down and drops the ball. Haha! The next throw hits him the shoulder as he now attempting to look like he is going to catch the ball, but dropping it so that he can put off his shower. He throws the ball back to me but misses me about five feet wide to my right. I retrieve the ball from the edge of our neighbor's driveway (we share a lawn) and throw the ball to him from a further distance, so it is a bit of a harder throw by me. The ball is coming at him about waist high and all he has to do is get his glove on it. He does not and ball hits his square in the nuts!

He gets angry and FREAKS out. He is screaming how I did it on purpose and throws his glove at me. Now, in his defence, my laughter could not have helped and I can see how he would think that I did it on purpose. I did not mean to do it. I swear to you all, but it was funny. My wife was not pleased and did not find it funny. I then asked her that if she saw that on AFV, would she laugh (the answer was yes) so that the only difference was that it occurred to the boy.

I had to apologize to him. Not for him not catching an easily catchable toss and getting hit in the nuts (that is his responsibility) but for laughing at the scene (not him, exactly). I mean as, I explained, it is funny because it is not me (Homer Simpson). It is as simple as that. I love slapstick and somebody falling or getting hit in the nuts is funny (if it bends it is funny, if it breaks it is not funny, Woody Allen via Alan Alda in Crimes and Misdemeanors). It is funny as long the person getting momentarily hurt is not me. I am honest about that. Anyway, I explained that him and all was well.

So I ask the question, does laughing when your son gets hit in the nuts while playing catch, make one a bad father? Ciao!

6-6-6, Is the End of Days Upon Us?

I am back. This is the first post for June and oddly enough it is on 06/06/06 or 666, the number of the beast or Antichrist. Is there meaning to this? Considering that I was going to natter on about raccoons and squirrels, I would think not. Then something else caught my fancy.

It appears that Meat Loaf has sued his former friend and collaborator, Jim Steinman, for appropriating "Bat Out of Hell". In 1995, or so, Jim Steinman, copywrited or trade marked the use of "Bat Out of Hell" but Meat Loaf still used the terms until they had a falling out a couple of years ago. Then Jim decided to get all pissy with his former buddy, Meat Loaf, Meat to his friends. That is the set up and it is all true.

Now, let us think about this. In or about 1978, Meat Loaf releases his seminally recording "Bat Out of Hell", with such classics as "Two out of Three" and "Paradise by the Dashboard Light". Even my father, who was not a fan of most of the stuff I listened to back then (he liked Matt Munro, Johnny Mathis and Broadway show tunes). I know the next question is "how long was your father gay?", if he was, it was a hell of a double life, then again, I never "saw" he and my mother having sex (thankfully, because do you know how bad that would have warped me?, try to imagine this even more warped) so I could not say for sure. I think that he saw his performance on SNL (we were in Florida and I was watching) and liked he. He said "that fat guy sure can sing" so he went out and purchased the recording on, this will show its age, 8 track.

So there we have a smash album in 1978 for Meat Loaf, written by one Jim Steinman. Anyway, they try to put out another album as a follow up and the key is too high for Meat Loaf, so it gets shelved or Jim Steinman puts it out and nobody buys it. I mean, who is looking for a Jim Steinman album.

We move to about 1993, I think, and Meat Loaf releases his "Bat Out of Hell" sequel, written by Jim Steinman (produced by him as well along with the original). This the album with "I Would Do Anything for Love" on it. It also has "Bat Out of Hell" in its title, just like a crappy Hollywood sequel, no disrespect to "The Godfather Part II". It did okay. Meat Loaf could now tour on two albums and milk his fifteen or so year hiatus.

He wants to put out another album titled "Bat Out of Hell" but cannot because he does not own "Bat Out of Hell", he has fallen out with Jim Steinman, and Jim is basically telling Meat to go to (Bat out of) Hell. That is the story. My only question to Meat Loaf is this, why do you feel the need to keep resurrecting (there is another, 666, Christ/Antichrist end of days, Armageddon, type of reference) that damn "Bat Out of Hell" name anyway. The fucking thing is over 25 years old, give it a rest and come up with another fucking title, you fat bastard! (He has gone from a fat guy who could sing to a fat bastard now).

On another related topic, I was watching a bit of the Blue Jays-Orioles baseball game when Oriole Kevin Millar was up to bat. The announcers mentioned he was a great guy and drove a Harley that looked like it was taken from the cover of, yup, "Bat Out of Hell". How is that for the universe telling me what to write.

So there you have it, the End of Days on 6/6/6, and it all came from Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman. Enjoy the rapture. Ciao!