Close Encounters of the Steve-o Kind

Recent random murmurrings of Steve-o, the roommate. His song in italics:


AH-AHHHHH-AH! Atreyu! Puff Dragon!
AH-AHHHHH-AH! Bumbafarian!

I am Lionel, King of the Thundercats!
THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER CATS!


Keep slapping Dracula. A slappy Dracula is a happy Dracula.


I'm Stockwell Day. I don't like homos or black people. Do you want to punch me in the nutsack? I'm not going to answer your question. I'm Stockwell Day. I won't tell you whether our security is adequate. I'll tell you how it's better than it was before. We have a tenth of the population they do, so we only have to do what's in the interest of our sovereignty. Are you going to punch me in the nutsack now?


Itth a shmall world after all
Itth a shmall world after all
Itth a shmall shmall world.


Steve's been waiting all day for a barbecue
Barbecue
Experience
Steve's barbecue experience
Steve
Experience
Barbecue...


Is Granny spry?


Rosemary Burps forever
She only burps after rosemary
Rosemary bur-urps forever


What's that leaking on the floor? Could it be? Oyster juice!
Oh Oyster juice
Leaking on the floor
Don't worry, it's just oyster juice. It's good for you. It's good for your health. It makes you fertile. Like Murtle.
Oh, fertile Murtle...


When you wish upon a star,
Catching moonbeams in a jar,
Doesn't matter where you are,
Out in space or here on Mars.
.

.

The preceding sentiments are endorsed by Steve-o, fertile martian oysters, your strange uncle that nobody talks about and by nobody else.

Aequitas: City Sleeping

As I'm abed, the wind whip howls
Around the corners of my house,
In waning year.
The snow is packed and
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
Footsteps at my door.
I rise and call
'Who's there? Who's there?'
No one answers.
Outside, though
In whip howling wind
A man passes my door.
CRUNCH
The snow packs underfoot
Or was that something else?
The bare trees sway about
Haunting figures, but
Creaking, groaning,
Reaching out for something. What?
What what what do they want.
The warmth of summer air.
In waxing year perhaps there's hope
But not right now, in waning year.
CRUNCH CRUNCH
'What was that?' again I rise
To noise outside.
Perhaps the sound of deer?
It could not be, they don't tread here.
The city is where they dwell.
Or was that something else?
CRUNCH
It's there again.
I decide (against my better judgment)
To stay awake and have some tea.
CRUNCH
Outside they sleep
Dead, or no? It doesn't matter.
In waning year the living
Are as cold as the dead.
Or is it the other way 'round?
CRUNCH
Through the pane
Of frosty glass, I see
A figure walking, back and forth,
Though it doesn't see me.
See me? Be me. Don't try,
It hurts.
CRUNCH
Not snow this time, but something else.
-Oh no! Something else.
I wonder what it is.
I robe myself and step outside
Into whip howling wind,
To look around and have a see
At what it is disturbing me.
Over there, by the refuse bin,
A bear scrounging meal
I asked him
'Why are you about so late?
You should be asleep.'
He looked at me with tired eyes
CRUNCH
'And so should you, now go away'
So away I went,
Back abed, whilst the wind whip howls
'Round the corners of my house.

Dinner Along The Amazon

(1985) short fiction by Timothy Findley

If you like to suppose that money can’t buy happiness, you’ll find plenty of comfort here. Lots of high-society types in these stories and they’re all spun out on some dysfunction or another. Typical Findlian characters.

Those pieces here, written in first-person tense tend to contain the greater subtlety and useful insights that make Findley a writer of depth; of literature, in my opinion, rather than fiction, while those in third-person are generally lacking (not a necessary formula, by the way, or even a common one in my experience).

And then there’s this strange piece – Daybreak at Pisa – a scene from a play that is written in prose form which, granted, seemed to accomplish more than reading it in script form might have, but why describe settings in terms of stage position rather than bringing the authentic scenery to life? This either went over my head or nowhere at all.

What Mrs. Felton Knew is another radical departure. It might have been called Country Mouse Meets City Mouse - For Psychos instead. From the literary schemes referred to above we’re suddenly thrust into an Orwellian environment that is out of place in this collection in terms of content, style, scope and mood. It falls flat as a cautionary tale, devoid, it seems to me, of any link to logic or reality. It’s like he said, ‘Here’s a nasty shocking random idea! Boo!

Mind you, I could be accused of the very same crime. I sometimes bury the critical metaphor way too deep.

Otherwise, there’s enough insight into the masked confusion of modern day mentality to make this work meaningful, and enough humor, wit and charm to keep it entertaining. Skip the two pieces named above for a more efficient experience.

FWG

Image stolen from www.amazon.com. Go figure.

Freaks and misadventure - part 2: The freaks

So where do you go when you need a good dose of freakdom to balance off the misadventure?

That’s right. The No Frills at Creditview and Bristol. I’d promised myself that my last visit here would be my last ever but you know how things are. This is the end of the line. I’d passed all the kinder gentler supermarkets when I realized I was in need of some yumblies and feeling optimistic, I dared take my chances at the little grocery shop of horrors.

While I was left personally unscathed I did have to witness a thicker display of boobdom than usual at the checkout – the 1-8 items only lane, of course. The actual names of this latest collection of spazoids to enrich my existence shall be respectfully masked by random aliases.

Up to bat at the register is Mr. Oblivious who pulls about fifty items from his shopping cart. The rest of us have baskets. Roughly forty of his items are cans of dog food. Mrs. Natterchops, maybe fifth in line and one ahead of me, watches with a keen eye and cleverly deciphers that fifty far eclipses eight on the counting scale.

“Hm!” she grunts. “That sure looks like more than eight items to me!”

Mr. Oblivious appears not to take notice.

She turns to me. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to count.” Then turning back around, says more loudly, “That must be it. He must not know how to count.”

I glance at the basket of produce in her hand. Like mine it contains six or seven items. But wait. Another basket lies on the floor at her feet, containing at least eight more items it seems, bringing her count to fourteen or more. Surely fourteen also eclipses eight according to any Judeo-Christian new-world counting scheme.

But now a new character arrives. It’s Mary McReservation and she drops a pack of butter tarts into the basket at Mrs. Natterchops’ feet and walks away again. My head tips forward. I gaze without expression at the abandoned tarts.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to read!” Mrs. Natterchops barks. A couple pairs of eyeballs look her way but not those of Mr. Oblivious. He’s just daydreaming about his puppies I guess, and the International Gala Puppy Festival he’s to cater.

Mary McReservation returns with a giant breadstick in a white paper sleeve. A wise selection. She can use it to defend herself if Mrs. Natterchops audits her item count and goes for the jugular.

Finally, Mr. Oblivious, King of Canine Nutrition, moves along, followed by a couple others. Mary McReservation comes to bat with Mrs. Natterchops hanging back, ignoring the pretty red separator bars and placing her veggies at the mouth of the conveyor belt, wasting six square feet of space in front of her while my right arm stretches another inch.

Mary moves on, Natterchops is promoted and I approach. First I tackle the sea of randomly discarded baskets. I stack them all in a single tower, resisting the urge to squawk, “Maybe she doesn’t know how to stack!” I wouldn’t be heard anyway. Mrs. Natterchops is raking the young cashier over the coals.

“Why did you let that man use this lane! He had too many items! You shouldn’t have let him use this lane!”

‘Oh lady,’ I thought, ‘Just shut up and let her check out your tomatoes, will ya.’

[Editor’s note: We believe FWG is referring to actual tomatoes. Just be thankful she wasn’t purchasing melons.]

She really laid into the poor girl. “It’s your job to turn people away who have too many items!” Of all the dunderheadedness this was the one thing that offended me. Why you’d expect a cashier (never mind that she was half the age of the perpetrator), who makes a cashier’s wage, not a policeman’s wage, to take on the responsibility of policing the public is dumb enough. But thinking that as a customer, you can just walk into a commercial establishment and assume the role of owner/manager and start telling the staff what their job responsibilities are goes beyond stupid.

The cashier said nothing but looked uncomfortable. I really regret not speaking out in her defense. Instead I waited for Mrs. Natterchops to leave and said, “Just ignore my friend there. She’s on drugs.”

She didn’t seem comforted. Oh well.

Freaks and misadventure. Freaks and misadventure...

Said it before and I'll say it again. You start up a blog and your life turns to freaks and misadventure. The universe conspires to give you shit to blog about.

Monday night. I'm working late at Ye Olde Information Company. 'Til 11:30PM actually. Very rare I put in that kind of overtime and I don't resent it. They treat me pretty good there.

I'm half-starved from missing dinner. I pack up and flee through the darkened cubicle farm to the West tower exit door that leads to the 2nd-floor lobby. There, I hit the elevator down button and wait.

Ding! The down arrow above the right-hand elevator door lights up. The door opens maybe half an inch and immediately closes again. The down arrow light goes out.

Things that make you say, hmmmmmmm.

Some kind of defect. Occasionally an elevator will malfunction and require service. No problem. There are three more elevators. The one here on the left hand side and two more just like them in the East tower lobby (the towers are not precisely towers in the strictest sense as they are firmly connected on every floor.

I hit the down button again. Nothing happens. I hit the up button. Nothing happens. Now both buttons are lit up and no doors will open.

Screw this action, I say. I maneuver my briefcase and laptop case into the same hand, pull out my wallet and draw out my security access card so I can swipe the security door and go back into the dark office. I go through the lifeless West tower, into the dark abandoned East tower and exit the security door there to confront the East tower elevators. I hit the down button.

Ding! The down arrow above the right-hand elevator door lights up. The door opens maybe half an inch and immediately closes again. The down arrow light goes out.

Things that make you say, What the holy flying fuck is going on here?

I hit the button again. Nothing. I hit the up button.

Nothing.

There are no stairs here. The stairs - as with many office buildings are strictly fire escapes. The elevators play a key role in building security. My access card is programmed for second and fourth floors only - the locations of our offices. Again I fumble for my access card. I leave, retrace my steps and discover that the West tower elevators are still in stunned mode. Both buttons lit up but no doors will open. I hit one of the buttons again.

And again and again and again.

I travel back and forth between towers for a half hour. No elevators will open. And there are no live security guards in the building.

I speak a few choice words. And by speak I mean holler. And by choice I mean - unspeakably vulgar.

I search the rolodex at reception and come up with a card for Polaris - our commercial landlord. I don't see an emergency number but who knows? I also find the home number for Anne, our office manager who also happens to be a Streetsville neighbour of mine.

It's now midnight and I know that she and her sister and mother will be sleeping but I'm desperate. I can't stand the thought of sleeping in the office for the night (which I've done before on a half-dozen occasions and vowed must never happen again). I make the call and get her voicemail.

"Anne, I'm terribly sorry to call you at home so late but I'm trapped in the office. None of the elevators are working. Please call me at the office if you get this message. Extension 555. Again - I'm really sorry."

I grab my luggage and march back through the office to the West tower elevators for yet another try. If this fails I'll have to consider using the emergency exit. The shit will hit the fan. The fire department will fine us $1000 or so but what the fuck? I'm not a rat in a maze. I didn't sign up for this shit.

Both button lights are still lit. I hit them again one at a time and no luck. I turn to head back to my desk in case Anne phones. I search my pockets for my security pass. I search my wallet. No pass. I've left it by the goddam phone!

I'm now trapped in the little 2nd floor lobby.

From here I can't even access a fire escape door.

I have no cell phone.

I'm fucked.

This area is in effect a balcony - overlooking the grand lobby below. So there are no walls; no sound barriers between I and the first-floor elevators below me. So I clearly hear the ding of the elevator door on the first floor below me. And I hear the door wheeze open. I step to the railing and shout, "Hello!" It must be the cleaning staff, right?

No answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

I ponder the situation. There's no way I'm going to attempt any sort of climbing down to the first floor balcony. It's a long drop. And I still wouldn't be able to get out. You need your pass to exit the building. But at least there's a payphone in the main lobby.

For something to do I open up the box that is sitting on the floor. Inside are flimsy metal skewers, cappuccino machine cleaning fluid and thermometers. Meat thermometers. I ponder how these items might help me. Then I remember I'm not McGiver for fuck sakes. There's also a large cupboard full of courier supplies. I imagine myself building bed and pillow out of envelopes and NEXT-DAY-SERVICE stickers.

I hear the distant ding and the opening of elevator doors below again.

"Hello!"

No answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

Either they are ghouls that are toying with my brain before they come and eat it, or else the elevators have gone completely off the rails. This opening and closing below goes on again and again. Occasionally I try the buttons but still to know avail.

Finally I notice that there is indeed a fire alarm pull switch present - beside the security door. If I want, I can pull this and the door will release. Then I could enter the fire stairs from within the office. But this does not appeal. The shit would surely hit the fan in a big way.

It's one o'clock AM. I've been trapped on this balcony for an hour now.

Now I have to pee.

Do I whip it out and soil the rug or do I pull the alarm and face the music? By soiling the rug I save them the $1000 or so in fines but they'll have to spend some of it on carpet cleaning anyway. And do I really want to sleep on a stack of envelopes tonight with the smell of urine in the air?

Ding!

The up light shines over the left-hand elevator! The door begins to open. I pray that no brain-eating ghoul lurks within. And that no The-Shining Here's-Johnny sea of blood pours out. I pray that it's empty.

It's not. A man steps out. He is the man from Polaris. Anne got my message. I'm saved.

Post #300: The best of Fantasy Writer Guy?

Okay, so the whole best-of-worst-of milestone idea was a bit of a flop but I’m knee deep in it now so let’s just get it over with and get on with our lives again, shall we?

So if you’ll permit me the terrible indulgence – a reposting of some of the more noticeable moments over the last 299 articles:


From the poetry collection: Smashing on the dash

[Apologies to any churchgoers. This is bound to insult though its only initial intent was to poke fun at the Jesus Face Finders who turn up regularly in the news and in the excellent blog of Flumadiddle - to whom this poem was dedicated.]

Are you weary of that dreary little priest and all his chanting?
Would you rather skip his blather or at least dissolve his ranting?
Do you wonder does he fiddle with those little alter lads?
Does this standing-sitting-kneeling numb the feeling from your ‘nads?

Are you one to trace a face in such a place as bathroom walls?
Does your Lord appear to leer at you from tiles in bathroom stalls?
When your bag of peases freezes is that Jesus in their midst?
Is that Mary on your derriere or just a hairy cyst?

Is that Moses striking poses in the soup stain on your table?
Do you find these sightings frightening? Are you mentally unstable?
Do you crave your savior such that your behavior has gone rash?
When your campfire has expired is His image in the ash?

Are you stressing and confessing that these blessings make you sour?
Will these preacher’s teachings reach you when you face your final hour?
Do you fear to not adhere, lest it clear your path to hell?
Well don’t worry ‘bout God’s fury. This is what I’m here to tell.

There are better beasts than priests at least, to give your soul to steer.
There are better pests than pederasts to whom to lend your ear.
There are better ways to spend your days than slumping in a pew.
There are better things to do, it’s true and here are but a few:

Go roam the streets of Rome. Maybe try to grope the pope.
But don’t get caught at that a lot. They’ll swing you from a rope.
Let’s go stumble through the jungle. Let’s go slashing through the gash.
Go sloshing down to Washington. Go crashing Bush’s bash!

Is the bible really viable? Let us spin a better story.
We’ll drive Beemers with blasphemers down the road to purgatory.
Take that auto Colorado bound where fashion’s unabashed,
Where that faggard, Teddy Haggard lives. He’s stashing all the cash!

Read a little Flumadiddle while laughing off your ass.
Try some Eeeeekkk or Magnet Freak. Their chatter is a gas.
Take a toke or snort some coke. Try mashing up your hash.
Let’s fill craters full of ‘taters. We’ll go splashing in the mash!

Leap the brink and sink a drink. Go thrashing up a splash.
Jump the hump into the dump. Go dashing through the trash.
Drop your hoard below the board. Go lashing down the stash.
Buy a ChristBud from the Price Club. He’ll look smashing on your dash!


From the FWG’s nuggets o’ wisdom collection:

If life hands you water, sugar, glucose-fructose, citric acid, potasium sorbate, sodium hexametaphosphate and acacia gum - make lemonade.


The best (or worst) of Steve-o:

What brain? The only thing in his head is a squirrel jerking off with a Sears catalogue.

What’s with Baldie McPluckinheimer over there?

You know how first-dates are. We mostly just talked about anal butt plugs.

When I was just a little boy
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here’s what she said to me.
Que sera sera
You’ll grow a comb moustache
And build an empire of hate and greed
And kill many Jews
Que sera sera…

You know you look like hell when homeless people start throwing you change.

Last week on Prison Break,
Do-doo-doo!
My nut-sack is on fire.

Wait ‘til she gets a load of my purple-headed yogurt slinger!

You know where that show ‘Bananas in Pajamas’ came from? Some guy woke up with a woody and his daughter said “What’s that?” and he said “Oh, that’s just a banana in my pajamas” and she told all her friends and angry parents were calling him up saying “What the hell’s this I’m hearing about this pajama banana business!” and he said “Oh! Oh – it’s just a TV show I’m working on!” so then he had to make the TV show. I’ll bet you anything that’s exactly what happened.

Don’t ever walk into a silversmith’s shop with a jar full of silverfish and ask him to melt them down and make a ring for you. They just look at you funny.

The jig juice is coming out all over the place! Hold on to your jig juice, chicken!

Hush little baby. Don’t say a word.
Mama’s gonna buy you a smiling turd.

Individually wrapped bacon is good for your heart.
Individually wrapped bacon won't make you fart.
'Cause it's not beans! It's not beans.
Individually wrapped bacon is not beans!

Peameal and bacon
And boys like Troy Aikman.
The fuhrer's in Kleinburg planning extradition
He's gonna kill Tom Hanks 'cause he didn't like Road to Perdition.

It's like that bathroom candle. That thing was powerful. It could cover up anything. We could have murdered someone in that bathroom and it would have covered it up. The CSI guys wouldn't even have figured it out - except they'd probably find some kind of insects. Ah, yes, the coabular dissenteria bugs. Those coabular dissenteriasts only infest bathrooms where someone has been killed by a knife and sodomized. Okay, now bring out the light gun. The light gun that can see through time...

Why do people watch ultimate fighting? I'd rather watch ultimate knitting. At least they'd have weapons.

What do we need school busses for? We should just use a pneumatic tube system to suck the kids to school. The trick of course is to strap down their lunches securely. No one wants to have to clean stray lunches out of the tube network. That's the only reason it hasn't been done before.

Man, my couscous is hotter then shit. It's made out of Satan's anal sphincterola. "What's this?" says the devil. "Someone's scraped a layer off my anal sphincterola."

He has to learn to keep his trouser snake in his - ah - trouser village. You know - with the trouser village people.

Have you seen my Contagious Penis medicine?

Uh oh. Here comes the Kumquat Vag Squad.

Where’s your Halloween costume? You don’t have one? Why don’t you go as Mister Belvedere then? You don’t even need to dress up. Just go around saying, ‘Hello Wesley!’ Try it. ‘Hello, Wesley!’

Midgets have glowing sex. When they orgasm it shines like the birth of a star. That’s why some little people have great tans. They’re the best lovers.

What’s with that cashier? Did you hear her freak out on that guy? “SIR! SIR! You don’t have to put both cases on the belt! Just one, please! My arms are getting bigger than my husband’s! I squeezed his dick right off! Popped it open like a Pez dispenser!”


Most recommended movies:

Siblings
Little Miss Sunshine
The Big Lebowski
Pan’s Labyrinth
I am Legend
Children Underground
The Last King of Scotland
Into the Wild
Pursuit of Happyness


Most recommended books:

Gently Down the Stream
Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
Inferno
After the Plague and Other Stories
Contact
The River Why
Under Satan’s Sun
The Stand
The Lord of the Rings
The Long Walk
The Screaming Room
The Five People You Meet in Heaven
The Road
The Alchemist


From the Ask FWG, Not Jeeves collection:

Best Google searches that lead unsuspecting readers here:

oink moo cock-a-doodle-doo barbecue sauce
Try aisle 5 – Should be right next to the HeeHaw-Ribbit donkeyfrog sauce.

cowboy coffee kamloops jesus
Krazy brand. That’s right. When in Kamloops, Jesus drinks Krazy brand cowboy coffee, ground fresh by real Kamloopian mountain cowboys. Because nobody grinds like a mountain cowboy.

streetsville crazy people
Please refine your search. All people in Streetsville are crazy.

pianos mavis eglinton
Well – I know there’s a Dollar n’ Value store at Mavis and Eglinton but I think they only sell tiny miniature pianos – suitable for 12-inch pianists.

canadarm taking off
1. Fully extend arm away from space shuttle.
2. Remove bolts E and F using hex wrench provided.
3. Pull Canadarm socket housing away from shuttle wall.
4. Plug holes E and F with chewing gum to prevent precious oxygen from leaking into space. Or if Dutch, use your fingers.

chinese apetizer with herbs and spices
What is Kung Foo Noodles. Things you slurp into your mouth for 200, Alex!

extreme rubber fantasy hospital
Ah, yes. One of my favorite daytime soaps. In this week’s episodes, Ryan and Candace filed for divorce, Mrs. Carbuncle was diagnosed with uvula cancer, Kevin James learned that his favorite prostitute is actually his presumed-dead cousin and Mary-Anne’s left ear turned into a ball peen hammer. There you go. You’re caught up.

Ontario Geography in simple words
Hilly
Watery
Trees
Roads
Cat
Dog
Boy

How not to write a fantasy novel
There are many many wrong ways to write a fantasy novel. This is just one:
Once upon a time there was a woman named Sheila who worked in the Department of Taxation and Excise. She liked to eat Chicken Noodle Soup for lunch. One day she stuck some of her soup noodles up her nose and stomped around the office growling and shouting, “I AM THE KRAKEN!”. Her coworkers panicked. She looked like a real kraken. So they beat her to death with their staplers and three-hole-punches and drank her blood. The end.
This is actually some excellent literature. The only problem is – it’s too short. You’d have to include about 200 pages describing the soup. Use simple words like “watery”.

guy noples
They’re mostly the same as girl noples but much more difficult to squeeze milk out of.

"jack handy" "deep thoughts" pickle jar
Yes. It’s true. Jack stores all his deep thoughts in pickle jars. Sometimes he has a hard time getting them out. He tries to stab them with a fork and the damn things just bob around, you know? It’s exasperating.


kung foo dialogue
I can’t provide the entire kung foo dictionary contents in this space but here are the top 10:
- HIYAA!
- WHOOAAA!
- YAA!
- HUHH!
- WHOAAAAAAAAAH!
- Ouch!
- HEEYAAH!
- Ow, my hand!
- Oh shit, was that REAL wood?
- Time out! I’m losing my drawers here.


Okay! We’re done. We can go get on with our lives again…

Post #299

Can you believe we’re approaching my 300th post since bumbling into the blogosphere? 298 posts and I still haven’t figured out what the hell I’m supposed to be accomplishing here.

I’m not that big on anniversaries, milestones and the like but this does seem a perfect excuse to take a look back on the little trek and see if there’s anything worth dragging out and dusting off.

Let’s save the “best of” moments for post #300. For today, I present:

The worst of Fantasy Writer Guy


Part one: Crimes against the English language

Some words and phrases used despite spell-check's violent protestations:

mohawk-esque
soul-departation
faux-hawk
sawduct
boobdom
kookoobananas
debaucherous
fleebing
bamboozlement
salesmobile
gamma-titanium-hexa-jupiterite
blecch patties
squint-chicken glumps
Mono Cliffs Inn and Orgasmry
New England Turdsniffers
poo-flinger
car poolery
kidlet
feedbagging
jumpin' jehosifats
starverating
detubberization
Whoop-de-farking-doo
Lipomorium
piss-shivvery
Afro-Squeege
Fuzzmuffin
Whiskerbiscuit
autocunnilinguist
punkernipple
discrastinization
rabbity
blogosphere


Part Two: Violence is never a solution:

Luckily I've come a long way in terms of anger management. But my, what unsavory instances from the past:

What I really wanted was for somebody to die for what was done to me.

I could throw on a lot of olive green and a pair of boots and just burst into the Ye Olde Haircutting Co with my assault rifles and blow holes in everybody.

I could just use their scissors and stab them all to pieces

Gouging out those devious little eyes

I fling them alive into the boiling water

I'll go to her office with a gun and two bullets - one with my name on it and one with hers.

Very worst case scenario - they die as they richly deserve and I go to prison.

Is this where I kick her in the crotch and run away?’

To locate the makers of this blarney imposter - this faux tartar. And to blow up their headquarters!

before I go tramping down the aisles of the store beating myself on the head and screeching like a monkey.

'Your personal safety is in dire jeopardy little Orsi man,'

the sun comes up and your roommate wakes up and unlocks the door and steps out heading for work until you jump out from the bushes and kill him.

No firing squad, No pelting of stones, No hangman’s noose, No electric shock, No guillotine, No blade through the chest, No boot to the head, No rending of limbs, No tearing out of fingernails, No drowning, No scalping, No burning, No disembowelment, No tarring and feathering, No drawing and quartering, No lashing, No caning, No imaginable molestation could ever be harsh enough reward for those BASTARDS…

I swear to god, I want all stupid people killed. I want them all put to death now. And I want stupid TV advertisers put to death three times each.

I want blood. I want to see the responsible General Motors executives lined up and either shot or hung.

I hope you choke on pencil rubbers

My pterodactyl's commin ta kill you all

"Take that, hornet! I'll deal with your flat little hornet corpse later."

'Lady, if you ever touch me like that again I'll punch you so hard you'll sail clear through the air just like they do in those cartoons that you watch in your roach-infested apartment while you eat your Kraft Dinner and wait for Geraldo to come on.'

hauled the teenage driver from it through the window by his nose rings and snapped his neck in two.

I want your head on a platter, you... you... twit!


Part Three: Posts that just should never have been posted

Jan 24, 2006: The Morning After
An 880 word essay following the latest Federal election that blasted the Conservatives, the average Canadian, and all who don’t vote. In hindsight it contains not a word of usefulness as the realms within which the piece bears context (politics, ideology, etc) are constructed strictly of fiction and fantasy, I now know. Worse still, I didn’t crack a single joke.

Jan 31, 2006: The Penny Game
In which I praised the idea of throwing projectiles at moving vehicles.

Feb 8, 2006: Top 500 Nick-Names
I actually listed five hundred stupid things to call someone.

Sept 23-29, 2006: FWG’s More Excellent…
Six posts in which I described my dinner every night. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Dec 19, 2006: Movie – Apocalypto
In which I dismissed all who would boycott a Mel Gibson film in response to his apparent bigotry. In hindsight, why shouldn’t such substantial evidence pointing to antisemitism and homophobia put people off?

Feb 11, 2007: Do not follow this link!
A video of a kid on a toilet reciting an exhaustive list of poo types. What was I thinking?


Part Four: Worst Comments received

Or they might be the best comments received – depending on your personal criteria.

Yo Mo-Fo Beotch! Y'all jus donno wut w'all go thru in da hood. If you jus axe wut it like fo us, you get it, bro. You don know nuttin' bout bein' black but wut y'all see on da Cosby show!
It's hard out here for a pimp!
Beotch!

Some piddle in the middle of your little leather chair
Is not pleasin' but no reason to be wheezin' with despair

Is it weird that 2 boxes of kleenex, Halls lozenges and being tethered to a chair remind me of sex?

I named my 60G iPod 'Pod!'. Then I realized I was just holding it upside down.

I'll bet cows have cottage cheese breath. Or maybe buttermilk with a hint of grass breath.

I think Pluto needs saving from Mickey Mouse. That Mickey's a randy little cuss.

shitheadbitchbastard. and furthermore...zusmqt

Snowbound

Bloody snow.

There’s no way my world’s most feeble truck is going anywhere today in this mess. I tried to take a walk to Streetsville’s little library but the driving snow nearly pulverized my head like a swarm of icy piranha so I about-faced, staggered back inside and holed up for the day.

I raided Steve-o’s movie collection – or rather – his recent acquisitions section. Between his movies and my books we probably have more material in the Grotto than the Streetsville Library has. I’ve picked five titles for my snowbound movie marathon and arranged them in ascending order; from least promising to most. The first is playing now:

1408
(2007) John Cusack, Samuel L. Jackson

I hardly ever ever watch scary movies. Hopefully I won’t have to install a nightlight before going to bed tonight. Cusack has a drink of $800-a-bottle cognac every few minutes. I’m playing along, toasting him drink for drink. I have no cognac but I’m making due with cheap scotch.

What’s with all these bits ripped from classic horror movies? Are they passing these off as homages? Lame!

Wow. That was pretty bad. I can’t think of a single kind thing to say about it. Maybe I just don’t understand horror movies.

Next!

Nacho Libre
(2006) Jack Black, Héctor Jiménez

In keeping with the audience participation theme I’ve got a tray of nachos in the oven. Actually I’m out of proper nacho chips so I’ve got jalapeno-flavored Doritos baking under shredded mozzarella and store-bought salsa. It’ll be good. Don't worry.

I like the parental content warning. Unlike those which inadvertently flatter with the label ‘mature content,’ this one reads, ‘crude humor.’

I decided early I was no Jack Black fan. Seemed all he had to offer was a lame shtick built of idiotic over-enthusiasm. Sort of Jim Carey Lite. And that may still be so but I have to confess, he makes me laugh in spite of myself and surely that’s the main, almost sole, criteria for any comedian.

Here he plays Nacho, a friar who runs the kitchen at a Mexican Christian orphanage while dreaming of being a pro wrestler. His culinary skills are clearly lacking as seen in the refried bean with corn chip garnish he serves in the opening scene and by the sentiments expressed by a superior brother:

“Your only duty here is to cook. Do you not realize that I have had diarrhea since Easters?” Somehow it cracks me up that he pluralizes ‘Easter’.

When Nacho spends his very first earnings from covert semi-pro wrestling endeavors on improved grocery supplies we get a montage of new and improved meals being laid out before the kiddies; wildly colorful salads with zany happy faces built in. This also cracks me up for some reason and I’ve scrounged the internet looking for images but the net yields naught. Google-imaging ‘Nacho Libre happy face salad’ turns up this:

A Goya. I think Google must be spun.

So, anyone know where I can get a pair of light blue stretchy pants with red knee patches?

Up next:

The Last King of Scotland
(2007) James McAvoy, Forest Whitaker

I’m out of audience participation ideas. Hmm. Scotland. I could have more scotch I suppose.

Wow. What a performance by Forest Whitaker bringing the very unstable Ugandan President Idi Amin creepily to life. I never noticed how far he’d come since Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Whitaker, that is. Not Amin.

Powerful. Suspenseful. I could have done without the scene with the meat hooks. Uggh.


Into The Wild
(2007) Emile Hirsch

The truthful story of Christopher McCandless, the boy who had it all, but who rejected society, his parents, his $24,000 university fund; who redefined himself super tramp, and embarked, by foot on a journey of discovery. He learned much, not enough ultimately, in the way of wilderness survival skill and put it to test, alone in remote Alaska.

What an excellent surprise. Very useful stuff for those with a knack for life behind the matrix – but tragic evidence that a little wisdom, without the right guidance, can be a dangerous thing.


It’s late but I’m squeezing in the final installment:

Pursuit of Happyness
(2006) Will Smith, Jaden Smith

How interesting that happiness is incorrectly spelled in the title. As if to suggest that the happiness in question is illegitimate. And such a theme was readily available in the details but the movie never seemed to acknowledge it – leaving me to wonder if some original source for this story was misinterpreted by the film creators or else they simply dumbed it down for the average new-world Joe.

A formulaic Hollywood flick, yes. But a compelling one with sound emotional structure and laudable character depth – at least in the hero – the wife character being painfully dimensionless, present strictly to service the plot.

Well done. I recommend it. I found the ending very sad and laced with a dark irony though normal people will almost surely interpret otherwise.

Abandon all hope, who enter here. The Hellchild lives next door

I’ve mentioned her before. The helliant that lives in the apartment next door with her enslaved mother. She’s nine or ten years old; a screaming tantrum-thrower and door-slammer. Strange, her apparent dissatisfaction with life, given the gift of utter freedom bestowed by the mother who’s vocabulary knows not the words parenting, rules, or boundaries.

Add to that, the word bedtime.

Her latest trick is to stay up all, or most of, the night, playing her radio. Her bedroom borders on mine. She has a penchant for fiddle music. Loud screechy fiddle music. Or perhaps all fiddle music sounds screechy to me at two, three, four or five o’clock in the morning.

Until now, it was happening on average once a week and always on a Friday or Saturday night.

Last night was officially a work-night – though really, all nights are work-nights for me. I’m not a weekend boob-tuber. I have shit to do! And I’m normally unable to sleep in. My body just won’t cooperate. When sleepless, I just wake up at eight AM and remain tired and unproductive all day.

Before last night I’d complained once to the so-called mother and twice to the superintendent. Last night I lost my patience as the clock approached 3:00.

I banged on their back door. The birthing entity spoke to me through the window.

“What’s going on, Fwig?”

“What’s going on is I can’t sleep because fiddle music is keeping me awake!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’ll ask her to turn down her radio!”

“I can’t go on living like this!”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!”

Apparently Her Highness, Queen of Darkness was in a generous mood and turned down the radio. I still heard it but it was less screechy.

I actually overslept just enough to make myself twenty minutes late for work. Between that and my being a groggy unproductive sack of shit, prone to making errors, I assume this will go some way toward involuntary career transition. So at least there’s a silver lining.

Waiting for me at the office this morning is my new telephone and some telephone accessories in a clear plastic bag that is boldly labeled in red, “PLASTIC BAGS CAN BE DANGEROUS. TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN.”

I’m going to empty the bag and slip it in their mailbox.

FWG

Image stolen from elsewhere; not actual Hellchild but artist’ impression.